Dear Kiki –
It’s okay no one understands why I was so upset this morning. Dad and Johnny don’t get it – perhaps the male mind can compartmentalize easily – they accept that you’re gone. Today I took stuff out of your room, the way I had set your things up, because dad is going to paint the room. You would approve of the colors – chocolate brown and a blue that is more turquoise than any other blue by name.
Dad wanted to take off everything on your bed and move it. I got hysterical crying. Kiki nothing has changed on your bed, linens, covers, pillows and stuffed animals, since March 1 2012 – the last night you slept there. I wanted to keep you there. I know its ridiculous. I can still smell you if I put my head on your pillow and pull the comforter over me. I laid on top of your bed once – the day you had died twelve months before. You know I know you are not coming back, yet there was something symbolic about the bed staying the same. It was not to be used; I would not let others sit on it. Daddy could not sleep on it. I did not want anyone to take away any part of you that was there.
I know it is a little crazy, when up late at night and I walk to the basement, there is a strange instant of fear that a ghost or you would come. I freak that I had this thought because I think now you will not come. In my mind, quickly, I say, “I would never be afraid if Kirsten came to see me. I could keep it a secret, we could meet in the basement”.
I cannot shake the sense that someday I will see you in the only form I know, human; this is what television has done to me starting with the movie “The Ghost and Mr. Muir”. I believe your soul is alive – I don’t know what that means. I wish my mind had a higher frequency, deeper intelligence and open mindedness. I think if I was at this higher level of thought I would have a sense of you being with me, or a clear vision of you or warmness in my heart when you hug me.
I just thought of this the other day — I spent as many years with you as without you. When I was 26, I was pregnant with you and had just turned 27 before you were born. Obviously, most of the years up to age 26 I was a child. I grew up with you. Sometimes you took care of me. I have always felt possessive of you; as if you were mostly mine. I know daddy and Johnny are part of my life, deeply loving them too. However, you were I, and, somehow, I was you. It does not make sense logically — it’s a feeling, of sorts, in my mind and heart. Part of me just cannot let go of you. My keeping your bed, “as it was”, left a tiny opening that someday you would come back.
Well, after dad and I had words about things, I carefully took off the pillows and put them in plastic bag and closed it tightly. I did the same with the blanket/bed-spread and a separate bag for the bottom sheet. I was crying. As I folded the sheet, I thought it was like folding the American flag for a soldier that had died. The room has never been so empty. No Kirsten mementos or bed coverings. If your room had feelings, it would be heartbroken today. This was your special room for twenty years although, in reality, it was only special because you were in it.
I often think about things we might have done when you and Johnny were young. When I went to Old Orchard the other day I could not remember if I had ever let you stop and look at the goldfish in the pond when you were little. Did I? I wish we had taken a walk at the lake. I hate to think about how stressed I was when you were young – always rushing.
I love you, more than anyone can ever understand, as I cannot understand. I feel as if I don’t understand anything – day turns to night and then it starts again. I hate the days passing…. I don’t want to have more years without you then with you. I pray — I do not know what else to do. What am I supposed to do in life now? Some days, like today, I can’t stand you being gone, unable to touch you, or hear your voice, or get a hug. I miss you.
July 1, 2013