I write letters that I never send. To say the things I could have said and didn’t. And to remind myself of the rawness of human emotion when it’s unfiltered and without risk. Some are true, and some are merely exercises under the influence of a momentary muse.

Dear Michael,

I was sitting out on a patio listening to some newfound friends share their music when you came to me. A flash of an image accompanied by a fumbling guitar learning Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain. The tears came fast. A wave of recollection, both visual and auditory. It stripped me bare in an instant.

I didn’t know them well enough to let them see my grief, so I fled without grace or explanation. I made it to my cottage, where I hit the floor. My knees still show the evidence, but my wine was held unspilled. The irony in that is too extreme to even contemplate.

I grieved for you intensely, but quickly, and then I recovered and rejoined the party. I’d like to think you’d be proud.

I’ve buried a lot of people in my life, Michael. More than most my age. You weren’t the first, though you were one of the more tragic. You were so young. We were so young. But with the pour of some cheap vodka, we all became adults. Except you.

And so, your absence will always be present. And for that, I am thankful.

Yours,
the coxswain