I didn’t get to thank you like I wanted. By the time you told me, you were getting worse and unable to use email. I knew anything I wrote to you was going to be read to you, if whoever was opening your emails would even allow it to be read.
So I wrote you knowing there was an audience, and writing so that you could read between the lines. I could not say what I wanted to say, the way that I wanted to say it, but I did my best to make sure you’d hear what I meant. I brought all the skill and delicacy I possess to fucking bear and I am reasonably certain you heard the song I was singing underneath it all.
During the holidays when we drove the hours between your parents and mine I sang to you.
Shortly after, your wife wrote me to say that she was the one to read my email aloud to you. She described your reaction which I consider something holy and I will not repeat but I wept for hours, same as when K. told me she dreamt of you, and heard your voice.
At the funeral home I saw your sister, we hugged and cried together. Finally she was pulled away but turned back to say she read the email and that it was a good thing that made you happy and why should that make me cry so hard that I can no longer type I do not know, probably because the fucking Coldplay is on and right at this moment he is singing nobody said it was easy, it’s such a shame for us to part and it was, oh it was.