Letters to those we lost

I made your soup last week and finally got it right. I cried into the pot. I wanted to call you and tell you so badly.

I'm a father now. He has your laugh somehow, even though he never met you. I tell him about you every night.

— your son

I kept your ring in my pocket on my interview. I got the job. I think you already knew I would.

I finally learned to fix the truck. Took me all summer. I talked to you the whole time. I think you'd have laughed at how long it took.

I wear your perfume on hard days. For three seconds when I first spray it, you're in the room. I live for those three seconds.

They gave a toast at the reunion and left a chair empty for you. The whole room went quiet. We all still feel it.

I named her after you. She's stubborn and warm and impossible, exactly like you. I think you'd be proud, or at least amused.

I caught a fish bigger than the one you always bragged about. I held it up to the sky so you could see. Beat that, old man.

I kept the house plant alive. The one everyone said I'd kill. It's huge now. I think you left it for me on purpose.

I drive your old car now. It still smells like your cigarettes and I refuse to clean it. Don't tell anyone I cried at a stoplight.

I got married and I saved you a seat anyway. Everyone understood. The seat wasn't empty. You were in every part of that day.

— your little girl, all grown up

I became the doctor. The one you said I'd be when no one else believed it. First thing I thought when I got the white coat was you.