Letter 3 – I Can’t Accept This

I Can’t Accept This

Garrett,

It has been just over nine months since you died. You are dead. A child. A young man in the making. My boy. I miss you. To say I miss you doesn’t convey the anguish of it. I miss you.

In this time, for these months, I’ve barely come to accept the fact that you are gone. I know that you are dead. I know that you are dead, but I cannot incorporate that fact into my being. I resist it because I can’t land on that thought for any length of time before I am consumed with grief. Sadness. An inability to hold the fact. I really want you to not be dead. I remember thinking, about four months into your death, couldn’t you be dead for just a little while, and then come back? I really, really meant that. I wanted that. But you are not here.

How do I allow myself to accept this? My intellect knows it’s true, but I can barely acknowledge the fact that this will be true for the rest of my life. For the remainder of my years, you will not be there. I am overwhelmed to try think of what that is going to look like. Be like. Feel like.

I can only take sips of your death. Tiny little sips to allow myself the time to absorb the truth of your being dead.