I really did care for you deeply and love you. Your goofy laughs always brightened my day. The way you wrapped your right leg around my waist when we slept at night made me feel secure and cared for without you having to say anything. You were thoughtful in subtle ways, and I hope you knew that I noticed. I know, “Do you want to get ice cream?” is something along the lines of, “Baby, I know you feel tired or crappy or anxious right now, so let’s get out of here and give into our shared delectable, indulgent vices.”
I think about you sometimes. Mostly though, I think about the good memories you left with me. Like the time we put way too many bubbles in the jetted tub at Newport. Or when we crossed a stream via a precarious tree trunk on our very first hike. As I teetered on that log, you said, “Jump!” And jump I did—right into your arms.
I want you to take your time with your life. Allow yourself the possibility of more than sixty years on this planet. And I want you to not worry about me because I’m doing just fine. I hope you are, too.