For the love of

My nephew killed himself at 14 years old. 

His name was John, and he was magic – an artist and athlete and actor, who could pull a penny from your ear and guess your card every time. He was quick-witted and kind-hearted; someone who’s innate otherness gave him his greatest strengths but also his biggest demons. His favorite show was Supernatural.

It’s actually how we first bonded. Him, a quiet, gangly pre-teen and myself, a shy newcomer to this loud, impossibly boisterous family. I overheard him ask his mom if he could sneak away to the basement to watch Supernatural, and immediately offered my Netflix login to the cause. And that’s where my now-husband found us hours later, making our way through season 4 and trading jokes about how much Cas loved Dean (little did we know). I have loved this show for over 10 years, but the relationship it helped me forge with John is something I will forever cherish. 

After he was gone, I kept watching. For myself, but also for him. Because if I was watching, he was watching. He may have never seen past season eight, but he watched every episode with me. I had mixed emotions about the show ending – on the one hand it was like losing another part of John, but on the other I was grateful to get to share this one final episode. And it failed him. It failed everyone. 

Seemed like something you would find funny. I usually hide behind other’s words on this day - but 5 years on, and I still haven’t found the right ones that express what I want to say. The tree was no help.

I think grief is a selfish emotion, at the bottom of it. You not only mourn the person, but the them-shaped hole in your own life, your own future. It is suddenly knocked off track, and you are left riding parallel to how you thought your life would go. I mourn that other life, the one where we hosted movie nights, embarrassed you at graduation, bought you your first underage beer. The one with you in it.

Selfish, right?

But the only choice is to ride this out, this other, not-quite-right life we’re left with. And I guess to hope. Hope that you’re happy, hope that you know how much we love you, and how much we fucking miss you.

Hope you hear us sometimes, talking to trees.

Hope it makes you laugh.