Pete, It's Christmas

Pete,
It's Christmas. You probably know that. If you were here you'd give me a gift of something you painted or maybe a kitten calendar or a plant clipping from your yard. You might hand me a tiny bouquet of flowers you picked on your walk to our car parked two blocks away. You would smile a slightly crooked smile and say properly, "Hello, Louisiana." And then you'd tell me that I look beautiful today, Louisiana.

I should not be writing this at work with tears uncontrollable. But words come when they come, pictures come when they come and the two belong together. I don't get to say when that happens, it happens, it happens and it's for a reason I can't see, I can't know. Maybe your finger just reached down and touched my heart. Pushed that button that opens me up and makes me feel all the love I hold there.

Maybe you're saying Hi, and I'm here, always here, Louisiana.

I love you Peter Alden and I miss you so much.

Guy got a leaf blower for Christmas. He blows the leaves off our deck in seconds flat, leaving it cleared and sparkling with no effort at all. I told him you'd never use it. If you could come over and be with us, and go out on the deck as you always did and sweep up leaves like you always did, you'd be happy. You'd see the leaf blower, then look up at Guy, and frown that frown that made you seem like a creature from another, more advanced planet. And Guy would laugh, and we'd all get it.

Guy's getting a tattoo on his arm. It's of the coordinates where we put your ashes. He loved you so much, I hope you knew how much before you left. It's odd for Guy to get a tattoo, he doesn't seem the type. This is different though. This is about him keeping you with him always. They're just numbers, but they say where you are in a physical way, on this plane, and he wants that. He wants you with him always, while we're here.

He loved you Pete, so dearly. He didn't always express it in a way that was easy to understand, but if you could see him now, you'd know. You'd know. I hope you've heard his prayers and heard his cries and touched his heart like you have mine. A single finger reaching down. Like a shot of novacaine, spreading warmth, radiating out, forming a soft mattress of peace.

It's Christmas, Pete, and there's a hole where you should be. It's not so deep and black as it was because we can see you there, in there close, calling from another place, saying, "You look beautiful today Louisiana, how's my taterhead princess?"