Dear Squeaky,*

It’s been a year now since your death.  A big year for both of us, with a lot of changes—you battling cancel and winning the fight to find peace, me breaking the three year cycle of depression and self-destruction by moving to a new town and starting graduate school.  My major?  Education, writing and literacy.  You always told me that my writing was my gift, and I could do  a lot better than writing fluff features as a reporter for the local paper.  Call it layoffs or divine intervention on your part, but I’m happier than I’ve been in five years.

Considering that I woke up this morning looking at my new thirty-year-old face, that’s saying a lot.   Ben says I’m better than I ever looked, but you and I both know true love is the best concealer there is.  It may just be the eight new pounds I got as a birthday gift, but at least they went to most of the right places.  You should have seen him—he was hopping around like the toad that lives in the garden.  “Your present’s here!” he exclaimed, flinging open the side door.  A man in a double-walled tired pickup pulled up with a Big Green Egg ( a ceramic smoker) in the back.  I was so excited I thought my face would split in two.  “How can we afford this?” I whispered while the man was rolling it down the ramp and up to our porch, scared to say anything too loud, for sure he’d know we were a fraud and take that beautiful smoker away.

You would have been so proud of him, Squeaky.  He took a page out of your Woody’s book and flung an arm around my shoulders, kissing my cheek.  “Darling, you’ve worked so hard this year, you deserve it.”

The next night, he surprised me by having the neighbors and all our friends over for a brisket and barbecued ribs dinner he smoked himself (with a lot of help from the neighbors).  You’d love Robin and Greg—they’re the nicest people you ever met, with four great kids. Robin reminds me a lot of you—she never says a bad word about anyone and she’s always laughing.  Little Annie is an artist and drew me a card.  They gave me the second surprise of the day, backing their Excursion up to the garage with five bags of deer corn in it.  I don’t know what made me happier—a bunch of barbecue or feeding all the whitetail and axis that have permanently camped out behind the house.  (If you thought your squirrels were demanding, you’ve never met a nursing whitetail Mama!”

“It’s almost been a year,” Ben told me the other day on our nightly walk, wrapping his fingers around mine.  “Could you imagine last year we’d be taking walks at 7 o’clock without a single car on the road, or feeding deer by hand?”

“No,” I told him, and I meant it.  Of course, one year ago we were living in boxes while you were fighting to go home.  The night you died we were broken into, a drug addict taking every piece of jewelry I owned except what I wear every day, like my wedding rings.  What hurt the most was not the necklace I wore to prom or the sapphire necklace and earring set my mother had given me for my 16^th birthday, but my charm bracelet, the one with the little blue fish that flapped his tail you had given me.  The detective actually found the bracelet later at a pawn shop—but the fish was gone.  It’s fitting, really.  Sometimes you have to let go of the things most important to you in life even if it hurts.  You just have to have faith that something is better on the other side.  After you passed, I couldn’t function for a week. I moved on autopilot, directing movers and unpacking boxes.  A new town, new house and fresh start didn’t ease the pain of knowing that I could never call your house again or drive up and see your serene smile.

But, as I’m sure you know, life doesn’t stop for one broken heart.

School helped a lot.  I’m taking a full load and holding a 4.0.  I still freelance on the side for fun, because you were right.  “Why do it if it’s not fun?” you always said, and I agree. I found out I had a bunch of food allergies, which cleared up my stomach issues (I know, I know, you’d been asking me to for years.)  It’s all right though.  The extra weight though was just what my body (and soul) needed.  The doctors were all shocked; they said it couldn’t be done.  By next fall we’ll have our own little one—if it’s a little girl, I’m going to name her after you.

If we were having tuna salad (I haven’t been able to touch it since you left) and your favorite potato chips, I know you’d look at me and say, “What about your writing, Miranda?  Your art?  School is nice, but what have you done for your soul?”

“Well, Squeaky,” I’d say, reaching for another potato chip.  “I’ve finished a new book and found a new art class—something actually in town that won’t break this starving student’s budget.”  I’d wait for your dry chuckle, like leaves dancing across the back porch.  “I may get my doctorate.  I want to open a school.”

I can see your thick white brow raise, your chin set between your sleek white bob.  Even at the end, a hair was never out of place.  “Oh?”

That’s when I’d grin.  “A school for art, and writing.  For children and adults.  A place where people can gather and share ideas and hone their craft, no matter what level they’re at.”  I’d lean across and touch your wrinkled hand.  “No one wants to write anymore, Squeaky.  Half of the kids I tutor don’t even know what a persuasive essay is!  If I don’t do something, there won’t be books by the time I get around to having kids!”

“I always wanted to be a writer.”  You said it every time I came over, always with the same wistful smile.

“I always wanted to be an artist,” I’d reply.  We’d look at each other and laugh, for we were two sides of the same coin.  An artist who dabbled in writing and a writer who dabbled in painting.  “Painting is important for writing,” you once told me.  “They go together so well.”

Thanks to you, Squeaky, all the kids that go to my school will know this as well as you and I do.

I know you’re busy working on a giant mural in heaven, but I just had to write.  I miss you so much sometimes it hurts to breathe.

Later, I’ll go upstairs and paint in the studio Ben built me, just because you said I needed to have my own space.  Don’t worry about me.  As you always said, “I’m on my way.”

Love,

Me

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Dear Squeaky,

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