a letter to kristan
i still remember the heat of the jaguar’s leather seats.
your music low, always some soft melody
that made even the silence feel safe.
you said
i’ll teach you how to drive
with that slight texas drawl,
gentle like honey,
and when you reached for the gear shift
i thought —
she really means it this time.
you were coming back.
you said so.
your last words echo in my bones every winter:
i’ll be back soon, alright?
and then the snow came.
and the silence.
they called it a suicide.
as if a woman like you
would fold yourself into the cold,
lay behind a dumpster at mcdonald’s
like that was a place you’d ever let yourself rest.
if you really called someone to come get you,
would you have laid down willingly
in the snow behind a dumpster?
would you have abandoned the jag,
abandoned the plan,
abandoned me?
no.
they killed you.
and the snow covered their tracks
like it always does for men
who think power means silence.
you were clean.
you were coming to adopt me.
you knew.
you knew the abuse,
you’d seen it already—
your own mother, taken in front of you.
and somehow,
you still showed up for me.
they say a child chooses her mother twice.
once by blood.
once by bond.
i chose you, kristan.
and you chose me back.
with every return phone call,
every court date,
every whispered plan.
you would’ve won guardianship,
you would’ve raised me soft,
firm,
brilliant.
we would’ve healed each other.
you were building the life
that was taken from both of us.
you were twenty-six.
you should’ve had forever.
but instead—
i write to your ghost.
to your name on paper.
to the questions police won’t answer.
and to the love
you gave freely,
without transaction,
without condition.
i miss you.
i still wait for the sound
of your car pulling up.
i still wait for you to say
okay baby, your turn to drive.
you deserved more than snow.
you deserved more than silence.
and i promise—
your story won’t stay buried beneath it.
i carry your name
like a soft blade,
like a hymn.
and i love you
with everything
you gave me permission to become.
—your daughter,
the one who still remembers the heat of the seat.
you knew, didn’t you?
about my sister and me.
how they split us like pages in a book,
tearing the story before it was told.
you hadn’t said a word—
not yet.
maybe you were waiting for the right time,
a softer season.
maybe you didn’t want to hurt me
until you had the power to put it right.
but i know now.
and god,
i wish she could’ve known you too.
your warmth.
your strength.
your way of making a child feel like the world
hadn’t forgotten her.
you would’ve stitched the sky back together
for both of us.
and now,
i just hope she can still feel you
in the spaces i try to fill
with every word i write.
