The last letter

Well, this is it. I knew it would come one day. But I also knew that I still wouldn't be ready.  You've been my pen pal for twenty years now. Twenty years! I know that for you, having been 88 and all, that's sort of just a drop in the bucket. But for me? That's more than half my life. If Gramma had lived, it might be that she had been the intended recipient. But she left us, and it was up to the two of us to forge our way through and figure it out. So I wrote to you. And you saved it all - every last bit of it - and now, without even knowing it (or maybe you did?), you've given me this gift. My life, in snapshot form, there on your faded, red counter for me to rediscover. Every trip I've taken. Every bit of mundane nonsense I've babbled about. Every apartment and car and assignment and job I've ever had was there, documented and ready to relive. It's like having a conversation with you, which is something I have to understand will never happen again.

Life got so busy with three kids, a husband, a job, a house. You understood; you lived it. And I know you knew it without my even knowing you did. So the letters slowed down. Never stopped, but slowed down. Because life sped up. Instead of details about my comings and goings, you opened Christmas cards and party invitations. Instead of postcards from far-off places (I really did see the world, didn't I?), you opened updated wallet sized pictures of little boys who loved you so much. Each new picture different - crazy teeth, no teeth, crazy hair, no hair - all of them marking another change in life for us, while your life chugged steadily along with change so much more subtle that I almost didn't notice. First a cane, then a walker, but always (always) a Subaru, always your music, always your smile and your absolute refusal to admit defeat.

Until now.

So here is my one last letter to you. I know you can't open it. I know you can't save it. But I hope beyond hope that you'll feel the love it's filled with from wherever you are.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Dear Poppy,

Hi there, my old Poppy Pop Pop. We went by your house the other day. We knew you wouldn't be there, and it was so strange to be there without you. But with every step inside, I could feel you. I could smell you. And I can't tell you how much I wished I could hug you again.

We used to talk about everything. I loved to hear your stories. Old tales about your mom ("Mother"), who so desperately wanted proper young gentlemen, but who instead had to wrangle you and your crazy brother out of the pond and into white gloves. I never could quite picture you the proper one. And I still love your refusal to attend anything if you had to wear socks. We used to talk about your love - my Gramma (who probably would have forced you to wear socks to my wedding, by the by.) Your life together, and how much we both missed her. We talked about the old world and what it was like, how it changed, what it became.  We talked about politics and culture, sometimes religion, and we talked about how you built the life around you.

I still have questions.  But you can't answer them.  And this hurts my heart.

You were never quite certain what would happen in "the after."  You didn't think much of much would go on. But Gramma had so much faith in her faith, and she never doubted. So which is it? Did you find each other? Can you see us and feel our love for you across space and time? Could you see us all together - your family that you created - in the house that you built, sharing stories and smiles and tears?  I hope so. And as much as I miss you and am sad to see you go, I have to say this: Whatever it is, you finally solved the mystery of what happens "after". I wish you could share this last tidbit of wisdom, but I know it doesn't work like that. So I will think about you often and wonder. And I will miss you.

Thank you for saving my letters. Rereading them is a gift. A glimpse into the past. My own personal time capsule. I will treasure it always.

So that's it, then. I'll go on my way. And you go on yours. Until we meet again, if that is indeed what shall pass.

I love you so much. But you always knew that.

Love, Alli

p.s. Thanks for all those years of breakfast dates. You were right. The pancakes were fabulous.

p.p.s. If you could please just go find Nancy Reagan, I really do need to know what she thinks about Donald Trump. This I must insist on.  xoxo