It’s been a long time since I wrote to you.  I can’t even remember when I wrote before but you should know that I haven’t NOT thought about you once.  Even after all this time, you still occupy a part of my mind and everything I do, say, or think about, gets filtered through memories of you.  I’ve gone through Thanksgiving, Christmas, and your birthday.  I’ve gotten through the worst winter and watched the snow melt into spring, revealing new growth for everything in nature, except perhaps me.

And it’s now motorcycle season.  I was on the bike Sunday with Paul (more about him later) and we rode to Watertown and went to the Luce Line Lodge.  I expected to be flooded with memories.  There were a few, but time has erased many of them and I found myself seeing you sitting on the bar stool, or on that high top table where we once ate for the first time.  I looked at the menu and everything you ever ate jumped out and taunted me. 

As I walked out the door, I looked down the road and saw the bar where you stepped in to break up an impending fight.  I saw the old Italian restaurant where we mulled world events over glasses of wine.  I saw the yellow gold wing owned by the cook at the little cafe.  And I caught my breath because I felt a sob rolling up my throat.  The yellow wing was really too much.  I don’t know if I can handle the moment I see YOUR bike ridden by a stranger for the first time. 

Did I tell you about the auction?  I can’t remember the last time I wrote.  Your daughter put everything you owned that we didn’t want up for auction.  So much I can write about that, but it was hell for her to have to go through the belongings that once made up the fabric of your life.  Kevin drove your bike up to Cambridge where it was scheduled to be auctioned off with the rest of your belongings.  I followed him in the jeep.  Following the bike to its final destination was one of the hardest things I had to do since you died. (Or killed yourself…shot yourself…I still never know what to say.) Watching it go down the road, seeing the decals from the Sturgis Tattoo shop, the buffalo, the horses, that damn skull…when we finally got there, I couldn’t stop myself.  I jumped off the bike and touched it…sobbing…so many exploding emotions.  I knew it was finally going to be over when the bike and the truck and the trailer and the Emmitt B Kelly clowns were gone.  I’m not sure I knew then what “going to be over” even means.  I don’t think that’s a point any of us suicide survivors ever reach. 

I didn’t go to the auction.  Your daughter said it was really hard watching your clothes, shoes, dishes, collections, and yes, your guns, including the one that ended your life, walk off with other people.  THE gun finally was given back to her after your investigation was concluded. Amber put it with the other guns and now someone else carries it, likely unaware that it was used to hollow out your skull.  She didn’t make much when it was over.  Your truck and motorcycle probably brought the most interest.  It took her a long time to find the title, and make the actual transfer and that was really frustrating for her. She lived with the truck and trailer sitting outside on her driveway for way longer than she should have.

We buried your ashes the day before your nephew’s eleventh birthday.  He should never have to connect your burial with your birthday, but I fear even a day before will leave that indelible mark on him.  I knew this day was going to be hard, but like your actual death, I had already “practiced” your burial and again, like your death, it played out almost exactly like I thought.  I prepared a collection of things to be buried with you. Since I know you can’t reach out from the grave to actually see what I put in there, let me tell you:

1. I wrote you a letter with 100% truths about our relationship.  Some tough admissions that I can’t even bring myself to write here.  Those admissions will be buried with you.  These are things I don’t want anyone else to know, but somehow I know you can be trusted with them due to the permanency of death.  I did tell you that I loved you.  That is a truth.  I told you that over and over as I put my hands around the urn before it was placed in the ground.
2. I put the heart stone you found on Lake Superior up by Shovel Point when we were up there on New Year’s Eve, when you almost asked me to marry you and I almost said I would.  
3. I put one of JR’s feathers in the urn, pictures of Toby and Cowboy…the braided mane you took from Ty before he died.  I knew you would want your pets with you.  
4. I put pictures of Mary in there since we decided not to honor your request to be buried next to her.  If there is a chance you know this already, please know that I’m sorry.  Her family would never allow you to be next to her.  We spared her family the pain of that decision.
5. Sturgis pins, several pins from your vest
6. An Eagle feather…

Your parents picked a beautiful blue urn in keeping with your wishes and your marker has your badge number on it.  Everything you wanted and everything you asked for in that damn description of your last wishes. 

Remember when you shared with me what you wanted at your funeral? It was about six months after Mary died and you were in a bad place.  You told me that you wanted me to speak at your funeral and you told me exactly what you wanted me to say.  You wanted me to talk about your search and rescue, your love of horses, and being a member of the reserve sheriff department. You told me the color of the urn, what you wanted on your headstone, and yes, you asked to be buried next to her. I tried to push this conversation off but you were adamant that I listen.  Somehow, even back then, I knew I would need to use this awkward conversation. 

But back to the gravesite…I haven’t been there since that cold, graveside service. I didn’t publicize your burial.  I didn’t want anyone from CRT to be there. And I didn’t want my children, my friends, my people to see me grieve.  After all, I needed them to know I was strong.  So it was just your aunts and uncles, your brother, your mom and dad.  A small group.  Nothing too fancy for the service.  Just Brad from the bike group, who had led your memorial back in July, there to give you last rites and say a quick prayer.  

 I wanted to come up and bring Toby but the snow came almost immediately afterwards (fitting, isn’t it?).  I kept wanting to take the bike up to see you now, but I’m stuck.  I don’t want to go alone.  I don’t want to go with someone else.  I’m terrified that the emotions I felt that day are still inside me and I’ve worked so hard to deal with them…

As I write this, I am 24 minutes from landing in Florida.  It’s been hard to bring myself to this state as everything about it screams YOU!  I couldn’t go to Ft. Myers yet.  I promise I will and when I do, I’ll go on a dolphin cruise and dump your ashes in when the dolphins come to play in the wake.  I still have a little vial of them.  They are sitting in my wooded buffalo box.  Fitting, don’t you think?

I am hoping to create new memories and reconnect with some of my friends who haven’t seen me since you started controlling my social life.  My relationship with you resulted in the loss of many important friends. I have the opportunity to be with someone that I have not seen for a very long time and I know it will be good for my soul to experience time with someone utterly unconnected to you.

 I am happy to be on the east side and not facing the gulf side with the sunsets you loved so much.  The last slide on your funeral’s PowerPoint was the picture I took of you watching the sunset in Fort Myers with your back turned to me and your hands in your pockets.  Beautiful, peaceful, nothing like the pain you were hiding inside. I like to think of you that way.  It’s better than my last image of your lifeless body on my garage floor.  Some images will never go away.

I’m landing and will soon have my feet on the ground.  I don’t know when I will write again.  I only know that writing both causes that exploding grief to rise up my throat and anger to be exhaled through the typing motion of my fingers. And so I’ll continue to use this cathartic way of communicating with you.