I’ve had the card sitting here for almost two months. Blank. Waiting. I know I have to send it. I’ve wanted to send it. But the words wouldn’t come.
Words rarely fail me. But this is just more than words are equipped to deliver.
I’ve thought about it every day. Once in a while, a sentence would come to me. And then, no. It didn’t work. It didn’t make it to the pen.
And I’ve stared at the card. Waiting. For what, I’m not entirely sure. Maybe for undiscovered words or a better way to say what raced through my head. Maybe for the chance to think, for a moment, it hadn’t happened.
But it had. With every day of the last two months, it became more painfully evident to me that it had happened. So the card needed words. Yet my problem remained.
How do you take 27 years of an unforgettable friendship and put it in a folded piece of Hallmark card stock? It seemed almost ridiculous.
How do you say I’m sorry she’s gone, I’m sorry you lost your wife, the mother of your young kids — without warning?
I’m sorry? It doesn’t begin to cover it. Not even remotely.
How do you say I wish I could do something to change it? Or at least something to take away your pain, even when my own loss still feels gaping and raw and unimaginable?
And I know my loss doesn’t begin to compare to that of a husband, a parent, a brother or a child. I truly can’t imagine how they feel.
How do you say I’ll always remember and I’ll always be here? As much as it’s a pure and absolute truth, is sounds so incredibly trite.
As I’ve tried to find a way to say any of this, more times than I can count, my mind races. It tells me that once these words, or some version of them, hit that card, this is all somehow more real. Once I write that home address on the envelope, once I seal it and stamp it, once I let it leave my hands forever — it’s more real. Even more real than the hole I feel sitting in front of the blank card. More real than the inability to call her, to see her, to have her stay.
I know the card doesn’t have to be everything. I know they know what is in my heart for Jen. And I know they know I’ve meant to send it sooner. I really should have. I just couldn’t.
I suppose the words — the real words — don’t actually exist. The ones from deep in my soul — they can’t find their way onto a Hallmark card. They will have to translate to other things — visits and prayers and memories. And over time, old stories told through both laughter and tears.
But for now, this card has to be written. It’s time for it to leave my hands. Even without the right words.
It’s too difficult to overthink and oversearch for the words that both convey meaning and won’t be misconstrued or fall flat. I’m very sure that you found the right words to write down onto the Hallmark stock.
I hope writing it and sending it also gave you some peace and release.
whatever you write, i know that the recipient will know and feel the love and thought and goodness you meant in your words.
xo.
This brought tears to my eyes. I can’t imagine the difficulty (and pain) you are going through in putting words together. The best you can do it speak from your heart. And that will be the right thing. xo
i agree – the act of writing and remembering is enough, even though it seems like it isnt….
You are right, the words will never come and will never fill the void. However they will bring a small comfort when they are read. I have known so much loss over the past year and the words never help, but the fact of knowing the words are there does help. I hope putting the pen to paper will give you a little peace. May you have the arms of God wrapped around you in the devastatingly difficult time.
always thinking of you!!
whatever you write, they know how you feel, and why. hugs.
Thanks, everyone, for your nice comments. I sealed it and sent it this morning. I’m glad I did.