Sunday, March 30, 2003

Dear Henry:

A man I don't know lost his baby daughter to Fanconi anemia this morning. She was 10 months old. I wrote him a note to let him know I am sorry. I also told him that his daughter will help him through the rough road ahead, just as you help me. As I was running errands this morning, picking up donuts for Joe and Jack, and and coffee for Mom and Val, I started thinking that even though you are gone you are still my constant companion. I think about what I am going to tell you in these letters, so you are with me all the time. This morning I was thinking how I wanted to tell you it was snowing big fluffy snow flakes even though yesterday it was 70 degrees out. I wanted to tell you the story I always told you about how my daddy, Pop Pop Teddy, would take me to Sears for fresh hot donuts. I wanted to tell you how I feel good doing daddy things like buying coffee on Sunday morning for Mommy and filling up the car and buying the New York Times. I wanted to tell you how the cherry blossoms are busting out all over the place. They're popping like popcorn. But I do tell you when I think about you and when I write you. It isn't the same as telling the laughing, talking, singing, burping you, but it is all I have.

The strange thing is later today I found the Target dog I bought you. It has a photo of you hanging from his collar.

What is strange is that I look at that photo -- it is you in your hospital bed in Minnesota -- and I think you must be here. I look at it and think you are going to talk to me, that I'll be able to hear you call for me. I look at you and it feels like you can't be dead. Grown ups use a word "denial" and that must be what these feelings are. Denial is when you say, "this just can't be." I told Mom about these feeling and I couldn't help but cry because deep down I know you aren't going to talk to me, that I am not going to hear you call me. I am looking at your picture now. You're smiling. I can't understand.

Val is here. She is so great playing with Joe and Jack. You used to really enjoy her visits, too. Our house was the usual zoo tonight. At one point we had, me, Mom, Jack, Joe, Val, Nana, Papa Sy, your buddy Ari, Rachel and Linda. That's why we bought new couches so everyone can have a place to sit. Speaking of zoos, we went to Sam's birthday party at a bowling alley in Silver Spring. I was thinking that the last time I bowled was with Jack at an alley in Hackensack while you were in the hospital there.

Sam is catching air. His shirt says, "Wish Me a Happy Birthday!" Isn't that great.

I have been meaning to tell you something. I started working at a job that I go to every day for the whole day. It was hard to go back to work. You were the best job I'll ever have, but it was time to move on. Soon I will tell you more about the place I work, but I am a little tired now. I will tell you I am really excited and you would love it, too.

Tomorrow is opening day for the Orioles. Last year I made a point of reading to you the articles about the Orioles in the sports part of the newspaper every day starting on opening day. I thought that would help you know all of the players and care about the games. I don't remember when we stopped or why. I can only guess that something happened, like you had to go into the hospital or something. I did want to tell you something funny. Uncle Bill has convinced James that "Cowboys" is what you call poopie. James throws his arms up in the air and cheers when his daddy, Bill, says, "Redskins." And then James will say "I gotta make a Cowboy" if he has to go poopie. Isn't that funny.

Knock, knock.

Who's there.


Missy, who?

Missy you a lot son of mine.
(Sounds like the way Jar Jar binks talks, right)

I love you.


No comments: