Dear Timmy, I Remember You

Dear Readers, I'm sharing my personal experience with death and moving forward. Because I am a writer, I tend to be more honest when I'm in pain. I wanted to open a vein and let it pour out. A weight has been lifted off me. If you can find any inspiration or just give a family member an extra hug, I will feel it has been worth it.

~*~*

Dear Timmy, my nephew, my friend,

June is here again. Along with the heat, this month brings the six-year anniversary of your death. You would have been 28 on July 4. What I wouldn't give to be able to see you just one more time. There's so much I wish I could tell you; and I wish I could feel your strong arms around me again as I did so. You were only 21 years old when you died. You wore your heart on your sleeve and made me feel calm and loved every time you were near. It's a gift you had from the moment you were born.

They have apparently finished the renovations at Cartersville High School. When you graduated, you and your class presented the principal with nails as you shook hands with him and accepted your diplomas. You wanted to always be a part of what held the school together. You'd be amazed at how wonderful the school looks. It's sturdy, too. Unbreakable from the looks of it.

I wish you could have given all your loved ones a nail, too. Maybe it would have held us together. You were our glue, apparently.

If you are looking down from Heaven, I know you are concerned about us and what has become of us. We have squandered the limited time we have on earth to spend with one another. Life is so short, Tim. You showed that to all of us, yet we don't take into consideration that any one of us could die tomorrow.

I have finally mastered all five stages of grief.

Denial:
I refused to believe it when they told me you had died. I argued with the police. I told them there was no way you wrecked your brand new car, especially in a head-on collision. We taught you to ALWAYS watch the other driver and there was no way I could accept it had happened. Even after I held your wallet in my hand and saw the single dollar bill in it, I said no. Not Timmy. Not him.

Anger:
Seeing you laid out in your coffin wearing the blue shirt and tie your Uncle Shane and I had purchased for you was the most beautiful and most devastating thing I have ever seen. Until I saw you for myself, I was convinced there had been a mistake. I was wrong. It was you, looking so handsome and calm. You might have been sleeping. I rubbed your buzz cut and cried against your shirt. Then I turned mean and hated the life I had because you were robbed of yours.

Bargaining:
I prayed to God to let it all have been a nightmare. I offered to go in your place. Then I begged Him to let you hear my prayers so you would know that even though you died alone and instantly, you would be buried in my heart.

Depression:
The reality took several years to settle on me, but it did. I found it hard to find the motivation to leave the sofa. I watched all your favorite movies. I bought CDs I knew you'd had. And I found no joy in being a part of the population. I just wanted to see your face again.

Acceptance:
Sitting in front of your grave one day last month I realized that I wasn't crying. I was simply talking to you as if you were there, and I knew that if God *was* letting you hear me, you would be proud that I was living enough for the both of us. That is what you would have wanted. I found myself laughing. You'd also want your loved ones to live our lives full of happiness, love and familial bonds. From your perch in Heaven, you'd get to experience your family going on without you, but just as strong as ever through our love for one another. I wish we could make it true.

I have accepted that you died.

In December of last year I made you a memory box. I put in a letter that you wrote to me when you were in elementary school. You told me all about how you were learning cursive, and I never threw that letter away. I decorated your box with pictures of you, me and your Uncle Shane. The box says "My Angel" in gold letters. I've decided to wait to hang it until June 2. That's the day you died.

I have picked the perfect spot in our stairwell so I can see your smiling face as I walk upstairs for the night and as I head downstairs into the bright sunshine of the morning. I'm putting it there to remind me that whether I'm coming or going, I have to live in a way that would have made you proud of me. Disappointing you is not something I can live with.

Memories never go away, Timmy. I thank you for giving me so many beautiful ones to remember you by.

I love you, sweet boy.

I can't wait to see you in Heaven one day.

Aunt Michelle

RIP Timothy Lee Kirby — July 4, 1983 - June 2, 2005