My dearest Eric

My dearest Eric,

It’s just I again. Same old same old. I have many longings that are no longer possible on this earth. If I could only see you again…talk to you. Anything! I know you don’t want me to be this sad. What happened to you once you passed? Where did you go? As you can tell, this letter is very unorganized. I just miss you. I want this pain to stop. I want to heal. It’s weird. I mean, I know you were just a man as mortal as everyone else, but I never thought you’d die. Funny, isn’t it? I guess I’m still a child in that regard always thinking death is only reserved for the old and sick. No, death is random. Death never cares. It simply does what it has to do and no more. You were in pain. You couldn’t breathe anymore. Death must have known and acted out of mercy to halt your suffering. And then there was no more pain…physically. But the price of dying is expensive, indeed. It left a bitter debt. No more father, no more friend, no more son, brother, cousin, uncle, teacher…no more Eric. You never struck me as one to fear death though. You seemed to fear nothing when it came to life. I don’t think you were ever afraid to die. It was sort of a show to you. Death seemed to be just another part of that show. I think if you were to tell me about your experience with death, you’d just laugh and say, “Oh, he’s all talk! It’s no big deal!”

I just hope you aren’t lonely. It seems like you wouldn’t be with your first born there and your dad and all who have gone before you. Nah, you’re not lonely. I hope wherever you are, it’s fun and you’re there with souls you love. I want that so much for you.

My last memory of you is a powerful one: you were there on the DHS sidewalk, worried about my journey home by myself in my power chair.

“E-mail me when you get home,” you told me.

So I did. And you were relieved.

I wish that you could e-mail me from Heaven or wherever to tell me you’re all right. That way, I’d know for sure you’re safe. I wish I stayed in touch with you more often before you passed. Nothing can be done about that now. All I can do is talk to you and hope somehow you can hear me. Somehow, maybe somehow, you are reading all these letters I’ve written for you. I hope you know. Do you ever miss me? I know that sounds so selfish, but do you? Do you still think about me and remember our times together laughing and being stupid in class or on stage or in your office? It was always you I came to see after graduation. I guess I was afraid you’d forget me somehow with new students coming into your life. Silly me, the worry wart. I know you’d never forget me just as I haven’t forgotten you. Actually, the main reason I’d come see you was just to be in your company—just to be with you. I think you knew that.

It turns out that you touched a lot of lives. You saved a lot of lives and souls. So why should my story be so special? It’s average. You helped a girl from age 15-17 believe in herself again when the world she knew fell apart on her. It’s wonderful to know when everything else fails you and lets you down, there are still things you can believe in—things like love, and friendship, talent, and yourself. And so it turns out I was only one of hundreds of young lives you saved. How typical of you. You were magic and you are still very much so.

I worry about forgetting things so much. Silly little stuff like what you wore everyday coming into class. For some reason, I remember you vividly dressed from head to toe in black—black shirt, black pants, black belt, black shoes. You looked apt in black. How you moved—the way you walked. You could change it up in a heartbeat at your will as part of our lesson or just to make us laugh. I saw you dance, and beautifully I might add on that October night during Java Café.

You’re infectious and highly contagious. I remember so well your loud laugh when you let it free…how no one could resist joining in with it. Oh, God! I’ve seen you stressed and upset, too and that always made me want to hug you and help you out. Your smile, your dark, bright eyes. Your wild, short, Harry Potterequse dark hair. Your beautiful hands, always wide and open. I never once saw you really close them. You always seemed ready to help with them or use them in a helpful way whether it was to gesture or to push me in my chair, to touch my shoulder. They were always open. Hands that do. They did more than decorate you.

Oh, if I could just remember all the silly things you said:

“Stupid people should not breed!”

“Don’t you hate it when you’re WRONG?! Ha, ha—Celia jumped!”

‘Jeff, wake up—you’re drooling, man!”

“Ya’ll, isn’t it SO COOL I left my TV down here?!”

“I love you, little girl!”

“Love ya, mean it—DON’T DO DRUGS!”

“Oh, you are in SO MUCH TROUBLE, little squirrel bait!”

“What, Celia? Did you say ‘research’?”

“Celia’s my piece of trash!”

Oh, good times! I never wanted them to end. In my own naivety, I never thought they really would. I’m just dumb. There are only so many words to say I love and miss you and language can never express them to my satisfaction but I know that you know this already. Except for death, nothing has taken you from me. Do you hear that, death? Do you hear that, Baileys? Nothing either one of you has done or will do has taken or will take Eric from me. As long as I remember, he is with me. And I remember so much. Not everything, though I wish it were possible, but enough to keep him alive forever.

If love indeed is real and it does indeed last forever then there are no real goodbyes. There are only “I’ll be here waiting for you”s.

I remember, Eric. I remember what I have to do now: live. You helped teach me this.

I’ll stop for now.

Love to you always and always,

S.B., L.G.