A Letter

 Hey J,

I didn't get to say goodbye to you before you left. You kept coming to mind all week, more than usual. I meant to send a quick text to see how you were doing and tell you how much I was thinking about you, but then I got a text instead, saying you were gone. I missed my chance. I didn't realize how little time there was. I keep saying to people that I was so surprised, and that I feel a little ridiculous for how surprised I was. I probably should've known better. 

Is this weird: I've thought about texting you to say goodbye. Like, after. Even though I knew it wouldn't be you who read the text message. Like, I know this is ridiculous, me sitting there trying to figure out how to get a message to you when I have already recognized the impossibility of that. 

But, okay, here's one last story for you, J:

I'm working on this short story right now, and it's set in Scotland. So yesterday I was sitting in my kitchen, looking at old blog posts from when I went there with Barclay in 2011. As I scrolled down to the bottom of the first one, your name jumped out at me—you'd left a comment that said, simply, "And this is why I love you." It was a strange moment; I smiled to myself and thought, Of all the days I could stumble across this comment from fourteen years ago... It's the kind of funny little nothing-but-everything story I'd specifically save to tell you, because you always loved stories about synchronicities. 

A light clicked on in my head at that moment: you are maybe the only person in the world who has read every single blog post I've ever written. You actually made a point of reminding me of that quite often, including in the last email you ever sent me. So if I wanted to say goodbye to you, maybe this is the place to do it? Is that silly? Maybe other people would think it's silly, but I actually think you'd like it.

So, okay. Goodbye, J. You meant a lot to me. You were a listener, a talker, an encourager, a friend, a motivator, an example, a cheerleader. You were one of the first people I told when I found out Sully was coming, one of the first friends to meet him after he was born. You were so open with me about your life, and I learned from you that openness is good and important and helpful and beautiful. You were the first person to "publish" something I'd written. You were funny, and you made me feel special and safe. And this is why I love you. 

I really, really wish I would've been able to say these things to you in time. I guess that's the last thing you taught me: next time, don't wait too long to say what you need to say. I don't think I'll soon forget this lesson.

Thanks, J. Goodbye.