Twenty-one

Dearest Emma,

Today is your birthday. You would have been twenty-one years old.

Generally, I do not cry anymore every time I think about you. I do cry every time I talk about you, but usually I can think about you without breaking down.

But not today. I cried the entire drive to work this morning. I had a sense of deja vu, calling back to the plane ride to Boston for your funeral, when I leaned my head against the window and wept the whole time.  I'm crying as I write this.

Today is rough. Twenty-one is a big birthday. Official legal adulthood. In my mind, you are a kid - a kid on the cusp of adulthood, but a kid nonetheless. But you would be heading into your last year of college. You would be preparing for what comes next. Independence. Pursuing your interests. Pursuing a career. 

When I write about you, I try to think of something we did together - keep alive the memory. It's playoff hockey season, and you were a Caps fan just like the rest of us. You were always part of the group that went to a Caps game the night before Thanksgiving. You and Jason always hung out at that game - he really loved you.

I ache with the longing to talk to you, to hear about your adventures. Maybe you would come visit and I would take you snowboarding. Maybe we would go on a roadtrip.

With each passing year, the thought of who and what and where you would be becomes hazier.

I think a lot about your father. My brother. I wish you could see how extraordinary he has been and continues to be in the aftermath of all this tragedy. He is so solid, so steadfast, so decent, so good. He is such an amazing father to Ollie and Hazel, just as he was to you. He has found a way to live with joy, with new love, with hope.

I don't know that I could have done it. I mean, I could have done it because there's no alternative. But it's hard to fathom.

Our lives continue. They are productive and mostly happy and full.

But there will always be a big hole where you should be.

I will continue to do my annual climbs in your memory - your yahrtzeit. You will always be part of us, part of our narrative. We will always love you and miss you.

All my love,

Wendy