Another installment of Sunday letters to Ian.
It’s been over 100 days since you died. Right now, there’s a loud thunderstorm going on. It reminds me of the night you and I hung out on my driveway in the rain. You loved summer thunderstorms, and enjoyed them. Reminded me to take the time to enjoy them as well.
I spent some time with your sister and her kids today. Your nephew is a pure joy. Your nieces are wonderful. Your sister is doing ok, still sad, I think… but we all are. Your oldest niece left her raincoat in my car after I gave her a ride back to their house, so I met up with your sister again to return it tonight at your house. The house you constantly complained that you didn’t actually want. The Wednesday before your death, I remember having the conversation for the hundredth time. You wanted a condo, not a house. I told you you could always sell the house and get a condo. You said no, you hated moving. I told you if you got movers it wasn’t bad at all. You told me you’d never move again.
At the time, I thought you were just being stubborn, digging in your heels, maybe concealing the idea that you really did like having a house, but liked to complain about it. But you were telling the truth. You’d already decided at that point. You had the means. I let it go, laughing and rolling my eyes.
I still don’t know who I am now. I still am not used to being the new me, and it makes me uncomfortable in most social situations. I don’t like that, but there’s nothing I can do but soldier through and learn to be this new me.
I miss you. Always. Relentlessly. I would give pretty much anything to see you again.
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