Thank You and Goodbye

(I decided that I'm going to write a random letter to somebody each week. I find writing pretend letters therapeutic and I've really been needing to write this one.)

Dear Kelly,

I only saw you a few times a year, but it was almost every year of my life. Our conversations usually only amounted to the pleasant small talk people have when their lives are connected with mere acquaintance and proximity. But you symbolized something much bigger in my life, and now you'll never know what your mere existence meant to me.

With frequent updates about your family's life, I always knew what you were up to. With a chaotic household of the four most rambunctious boys imaginable, a face-tracked law career, coaching a state-championship winning cheer squad, heading various committees around town, and still having time to flash that carefree and knowing smile to anybody that stopped by just to chat, your life was a whirlwind of constant busyness.

You epitomized a woman bent on living her life the way she wanted it, and rearing four kids to boot. You were strong, confident, capable. Everything I ever wanted to grow up and be.

And then you were diagnosed with breast cancer. But you kept your life from becoming a weepy after-school special. You never pitied yourself and demanded nobody openly pitied you. And, of course, everyone obeyed because everybody always listened to you. You commanded respect, and never failed to earn it.

You took on even more responsibilities after your diagnosis. You headed up the most successful Race for the Cure teams in the county, even if the race wouldn't be fast enough to save you. You didn't give up anything. You were going full force up until the very week you simply were not physically capable.

After the first time you were hospitalized, I was filled with dread every time I saw Grandma's number on the caller ID. Afraid of that phone call, of those words. Even though I knew they were coming, they hit me hard when I finally heard them.

For a week, my brain could only drift to you when it was unoccupied. To you, your poor grieving husband, your four boys. The boys I'd played tag with in the church playground, supervised sleigh riding trips, mediated fights, and coordinated extensive games of "Red Light, Green Light" with. The now motherless boys, the youngest ones to who you'd only be a vague, fuzzy memory.

It took me a few days to even muster the courage to read your obituary. I learned even more about you that I never knew. That tiny paragraph seemed so inadequate to encapsulate the accomplishments of your life. It was far too small to hold all your strength, even if the writing morbidly rings of your own. Always the planner, we all secretly suspect you planned your own funeral, not wanting to be remembered in any way other than perfect, precise, and efficient.

I only saw you a few times a year. I shouldn't be this torn up.

But I was. I am. An entire town was pulling for you, now an entire town grieves for you. There aren't many people who can claim such universal love and respect. As dangerously Hallmark as it sounds, I'll never forget the small and significant impact your life and your death had on me. I can only hope to ever become as strong as you were your entire, short 42 years.

Thank you for being Kelly.