Alright, so today’s share is a heavy one. It’s about the process, the actual doing, of writing that letter. The one to my wife, for when, you know, I’m not around anymore. Sounds grim, and yeah, it kinda is. But it felt like something I just had to do.
Figuring Out I Even Needed To Do This
It wasn’t like a movie scene, no sudden dramatic doctor’s visit that BAM! made me grab a pen. More like a slow creep. You get to a certain age, see things, feel things in your own body, and the thought just starts to camp out in your head. For weeks, it was just a nudge. Then one morning, I woke up and it was like a big ol’ neon sign: “Write the damn letter, you fool.” So, I decided, okay, today’s the day. No more putting it off. Felt like I was suiting up for a battle I’d already lost, but still had to fight, if that makes any sense.
The Actual Nitty-Gritty of Getting Words Down
So, I sat down. Not at my desk, felt too formal. Just at the kitchen table, morning sun coming in, birds chirping, all normal. And there I was, about to do this very not-normal thing. I grabbed a legal pad, the yellow kind, and my favorite pen, the one that writes smooth. Thought about typing it, but no. This needed to be handwritten. Felt more real, more… me.
First, nothing. Just stared at the blank page. What do you even say? Where do you start? My mind was a jumble. I thought about:
- All the “I love yous” that might not have landed right over the years.
- Little memories, stupid stuff, like that time we got lost driving to Maine and ended up having the best seafood ever in some tiny town.
- Practical things, passwords, where the important papers are – but then I thought, nah, that’s for a different list. This is… different.
- Apologies. For sure, apologies. For being a grump, for working too much, for not always being the husband she deserved.
It was messy. I started writing, then crossed things out. Scribbled in the margins. A couple of tear blobs landed on the paper, smudged the ink. Didn’t care. This wasn’t for a grade.
You Know, I’m Not Great With This Stuff
Truth is, I’ve always been rubbish at talking about feelings. My dad was the same. We showed love by fixing things, by being there, not by saying stuff. I remember when my dog, old Buster, died when I was a kid. I was heartbroken, but I just kinda clammed up. My dad just patted my shoulder. That was it. No big talk. And I grew up thinking that’s how men deal with things. So, sitting there, trying to pour out my heart onto a page, it was like trying to speak a foreign language. Every word felt like pulling a tooth. It was exhausting, man. More tiring than a day of hard labor, I swear.
Trying to Make it… Her
After a while, I stopped trying to make it perfect or logical. I just wrote to her. Like she was sitting right there. I told stories she already knew, but maybe she’d want to hear them again, in my words. I tried to put in the way her laugh sounds, the way she hums when she’s cooking. Little things that are all her, all us.
I didn’t worry about fancy words. Used the same plain talk I always do. A few swear words probably slipped in there too. It’s just how I talk, and I wanted it to be me, authentically me, for better or worse. The main thing was getting it all down, the good, the bad, the love that’s been the bedrock of my whole adult life. It’s not a list of instructions, or a will. It’s just… me, talking to her, one last time.
Done? I Don’t Know. But It’s Written.
Took me hours. The sun had moved across the sky. My coffee was cold. My hand ached. But it was there. A few pages of yellow paper, filled with my scrawl. Is it everything? No way. How can you sum up a life together in a few pages? But it’s something. It’s what I could manage.
I folded it up. Put it in an envelope. Wrote her name on it. Now it’s tucked away in my top drawer, under some old tax returns. A weird place, maybe. But she’ll find it. Or someone will. The act of writing it… didn’t bring peace, not really. More like a quiet acknowledgment. A task ticked off a list no one wants to have. But it’s done. And that, I guess, is something.
