Dear J.M.

We’ve never met, but I went to your funeral. I was twenty-one and my husband and I were still dating. It was a cold February day and we were in the grocery store stocking up on hot cocoa when he got the call. I pushed the grocery cart over terracotta tiles.

At your funeral, your father hugged me jollily, hiding his own sorrow in long embraces. Your mother only gave me a weak smile, hands rooted firmly at her side. You wore a green turtleneck and your blonde hair was neatly parted. A family friend sang while the piano player fumbled on the keys.

I ate the groceries that you bought on your last morning. I liked the granola. Your parents gave my husband and I the couch that was in your apartment and the pink mixer that you received on your last Christmas.

I was with your mother on her first Mother’s Day without you. We had bagels and we looked at pictures of you on a trip to Norway, your blue eyes bright; happy.

Your parents came to my wedding. I’m sure you would’ve been there too. The same friend sang and the organist also fumbled on the keys.

I saw your parents on the first Thanksgiving that I was married. Your mother baked an apple pie and your father brought sweet potatoes. We talked a lot about you at dinner and when your mother found out we wore the same size clothes, she invited me over. 

Your house was filled with your paintings and drawings. One painting on the wall was of you lying in a pile of leaves, staring at something unknown. Embedded in the leaves were faces scattered around you. Your mother wondered if they were the demons in your head.

Your room was painted a deep blue and I wonder if that was your favorite color. Your bookshelf was full of books, some of them in French.

My younger sisters are identical twins but I think we were closer in size. Every shirt, every pair of pants fit me as if they were mine to begin with. Even your shoes easily slipped on. There was a jacket with long sleeves that you had rolled up and the cuff you had created was perfect for me. I looked at myself in your large closet mirror, knowing that you used to stand in the same clothes looking in the same mirror.

You were five years older than me when you died. It felt as if those five years were so great, so monumental; but in reality, those five years passed quickly for me. Soon I was your age and then older than you, twenty-six fading into my past, my younger self only a memory. My hair darkened, streaks of gray sometimes visible. You will never be burdened by old age, your hair forever blonde, your skin smooth.

Your mother knit my daughter a baby blanket before she was born. It is blue and orange and pink and purple, vibrant and bright like you. Your copy of Goodnight Moon is on her bookshelf. Another book has your name written in it, your childish handwriting still so neat and perfect.

My children and I make cakes and cookies with your pink mixer and I still wear your jacket when I pick them up after school, the sleeves still rolled to where you left them. I wonder if you would’ve had children. I wonder if we would’ve connected over writing or gardening or motherhood. I wonder exactly when you would’ve entered into my life, confident that the threads that connect us would’ve been strong and beautiful. They still feel beautiful to me.