Dear Leslie (3)

Dear Leslie,
It's Halloween night, which means it's that time again. The time when kids are trick-or-treating and taking part in an age-old tradition of being silly, giddy kids - loving this fun holiday. The time when it's starting to get colder outside and the holidays are around the corner. The time when life is crazy busy with so many fun fall things to do. The time when we realize just how fast the years are passing, and you are still missing it all. The time when we reflect on that horrific night ... the night that should have been Banner's first Halloween, the night when your grandsons should have been annoyed at us wanting to take more pictures of them as we told them to hold still and wait one more minute before they went to trick-or-treat, the night that should have been filled with laughter and candy and rushing to get our 4-month-old to bed on time while big kids kept ringing our doorbell. But, that's not what happened that night, and tonight is the night I reflect on how it all happened. The phone call, the denial, the nightmarish reality. The tears, the yells, the anger, the silence.

Yes, the silence. So much is heard, so much is seen in just the stillness of thinking about you. Sometimes I sit in Quinn's room rocking him often thinking of you and what you are missing. It's quiet as he dozes off, and I see so much of you in his face. He will never know you, at least not in person, but sometimes - just every now and again - I feel you when I hold him. I wonder if you are listening to my lullabies or holding his hand as he toddles along. I wonder if you're laughing at me while I'm frustrated as he tries to roll off the changing table or fighting with him to stay out of the dishwasher. And, sometimes, I have memories of you and him together - memories that never happened. I can see you holding him. He's such a little love, such a cuddler, that I can see you snuggling him as he rests on you. I can see you cracking up as he waddles across the room and tumbles. I can hear you talking to him and trying to get him to say "Bubbie." Yet none of these things ever happened. You live on so clearly in my mind, yet you are not here.

So hard, Leslie. So hard to get that through my head. You won't ever be here to see all these amazing things that are happening here, the things I know you would LIVE for! I know you'd be bugging me to babysit, begging me to have the kids sleep over, having a blast with these grandsons of yours, and gloating over Sam's success. But you aren't here.

And at the same time, you are still often a topic of discussion. This was the year Banner started asking about you. "Where does Bubbie live?" he wanted to know back in December on the way to a birthday party. "Is Bubbie under there?" he asked when we visited your grave on Mother's Day. "Why did Bubbie die?" he wondered after a swim lesson. "When will I die, Mommy?"

I had all the answers ready, but my heart is never ready to hear these questions. My mind races to make sure I say the right things, to leave no question unanswered, to make sure he feels comfortable asking and talking, to prevent fear and anxiety, to keep your memory alive. My heart aches for him that he'll never know you, but it aches more for Sam. I miss you so much for him. And, my heart aches for you - that you continue to miss all this love. It will always and forever be unfair that you are missing it all.

This year, you missed Banner's 3rd birthday. You missed his Shabbat performance this morning. You missed his first year of preschool and how much he's learned! You missed Quinn's first steps, first words, and first birthday. You missed his baby naming and all his first holidays. You missed Banner learning what it really means to be a brother - all the sibling rivalry that's started and the taunting and tormenting that's been going on between the two. You've missed their sweet giggles together, though, too. You would be so impressed with these two boys of ours.

Leslie, I made you a promise last year to make each day a beautiful day. I did my best, and I will continue to promise you that. You're getting farther from us in time, but your memory is still very much alive and well. More and more, there are stories about Bubbie and "when Daddy was little." I can't watch my kids eat an ice cream cone without thinking of you - thanks to the memory Sam always shares about how you taught him how to eat one. I tell Sam when I hear you in his voice or his expression. Banner knows you signed him up for the PJ Library books so when one comes, we tell him "it's from Bubbie!" ("Bubbie must be nice to keep sending me these books!"... We did have to clear this up to explain that you signed him up before you died but that the books will keep coming.) Sam and I often reflect on what you would say or do and how you would say it. And, I have a whole vault of memories stored for safe keeping. So, don't worry that you are being forgotten. Not so. It just really sucks that you aren't here to see it all yourself. And it really sucks trying to explain death to a 3-year-old when we barely understand it ourselves.

Just this month, Richard moved out of the last home you ever knew. It's hard knowing that we won't be back in that home. It's hard because so many of my "made-up" memories are in that home. It's where we announced our pregnancy, it's where you made the last green bean casserole for me, it's where I remember turning around and you smiling at me as you said, "I forgot you were pregnant, and then you turned around and there was this belly there, and I just LOVE that!" It's where Sam dropped you off on his last "date" with you, it's where I picked you up when the snowy weather created a power outage and we spent the day together making challah, it's where you held Banner in your last picture with him, it's where you took your last breath. So, it was hard for me to leave it that last time, but I know you aren't there and that those memories are what matter. It's just yet another ending to this chapter of saying goodbye to you.

As you know, I talk to you throughout the year, so this letter doesn't have to say everything. I just want you to know how missed you are, how alive you still are in our hearts, and how deeply I wish it could have been different. 3 years later and it still feels so fresh. It's not as raw perhaps, but there is still a pain. It's just a pain we have become more rehearsed in. We have learned how to deal a little bit better, how to tolerate the voids, and how to bring you along with us.

Missing you always,
Amber