Dear Henry,

Sixteen Years.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day you left us. I want to tell you about how we’re doing. Well,

maybe just how I’m doing, since I can’t speak for everyone.

I get along ok. I used to think that I could never be happy again, but it’s not true. I have many many

happy moments and days. It is true that there is an underlying fault line; it’s always there and I can feel

it most of the time. But I don’t get shaken up by the earthquake of absolute horror over your leaving us

very often. It’s there. I just stay away from it until I’m caught off guard by something, then I fall. But

I get back up again, shake it off, and get going back on the road.

Your dad cries often over you still – he’s getting more emotional as he gets older.

We all talk about you as much as we can. We remember the fun and funny things about you, and all the

cleverness you had and the sweet warmth that you gave to us all. We don’t avoid the word “suicide”

and we still talk sometimes about how things might have been different. But, no, don’t worry, I don’t

wallow in the “what-if’s” so much anymore. The whole thing is so complicated, how could we ever

know if it was just the Prozac? And as much as it is tempting to blame ourselves, it’s not healthy to do

that and we just won’t.

I still feel confused when I’m planning family events. Your missing place throws my count off every time. 

I am hopeless with numbers and getting worse every year.

Most of the time when someone asks how many children we have I answer “three.” I just don’t feel

like getting into it with someone I don’t know very well.

We haven’t yet talked to Isaac very much about you. I hope one day he’ll give us the chance. I’ll talk

his ear off about you, the real you. I hope some day he’ll want all the scrapbooks and things I have.

They should be in his hands. But if he doesn’t, I know your sister and brothers would love to have

them after your dad and I are gone.

Losing you was such a horror, Henry. It’s not like when my parents died. Your Grandma Case’s death

at 55 was terrible, and your poor Grandpa Case suffered so badly from Parkinson’s before he died at

84. But the grief I felt at their passing did not flatten me and toss me into an abyss like your death did.

And, sweetheart, I don’t blame you. Hear me now, I don’t blame you. You were not in your right

mind. If only I could hold you and comfort you right now. How I long to do that. But we will greet

each other with joy one day in the Great Beyond, where God will wipe away all our tears. And I do

feel sometimes that you are close to me. Thank you for that, sweet Henry. I love you.

Mama Pajama

06.06.2022