I was just listening to “My Shit’s Fucked Up.” I’ve always thought that it could’ve been your theme song, but today it’s mine.
So let me break it to you, son…my shit’s fucked up because this will be the last letter I write to you for a while. Don’t take it personally, dude. It’s not you, it’s me. We’ll still talk every now and then, but I need to take a break and here’s why:
You are dead. Your life ended. There is no more Rob.
You already knew this, I already knew this and everybody already knew this, but for these past 11 months, writing has been my way of keeping you alive. I’ve been holding on to you for dear life. Yours and mine.
The truth is that there’s nothing left to hold on to. The truth is that I’ve been scared to let you go. We all know that death is final. It’s the end. That’s the way all stories finish—THE. END. I hated that your story came to such an abrupt conclusion, and believed that writing and holding on to you was somehow going to…I don’t know what I thought, I wasn’t really thinking, I just didn’t want your story to be over.
Writing about you every day has kept us connected—the sand and the water—although I’m not even sure who’s who anymore. Sometimes I have to look at my tattoo to remind me, just like the guy in Memento.
Remember when we first watched that movie and then immediately watched it again, trying to figure shit out? That’s what this blog has been for me—trying to figure shit out. I’ve been saying for a while that I was going to stop on the anniversary of your death, but I haven’t told you why. It’s simple really, and you probably know what I’m about to say because it always comes back to the same thing—love. I love you so much that if I don’t stop now, I’ll just keep on going until the day I die, which would mean that I’d never be happy again and wouldn’t have much of a life. I know you wouldn’t want that for me, so I think it’s best if we both take a little rest—me from you and you in peace.
In other fucked-up-shit news, Kobe Bryant and his 13-year-old daughter died in a helicopter crash a few days ago! The world is in mourning and everyone has been saying what a devastating tragedy it was—and for sure it was—but all I could think about was you. The unimaginable shock, crushing heartbreak and deep, deep sorrow that the world is feeling right now is what I’ve been feeling every day for the past year. And you sucked at basketball!
I was watching interviews with some of the players on the day it happened, and a few of them said that they were fathers and couldn’t imagine what losing a child is like. Other commentators mentioned that Kobe was a legend and there was no one else like him. An actor tweeted that we should show and tell our children that we love them every day and hold them close because it can be gone in a blink. And there I was, sitting on the couch crying, because I can imagine what it’s like to lose a child. I know deep in my heart that there was no one else like you, and I’ve been holding you close, telling you how much I love you ever since you were gone in a blink.
I don’t know why, and boy, have I said that a lot since you’ve been gone, but I’ve been saying the Serenity Prayer these past few days, and if that’s not a sign that my shit’s fucked up, then nothing is. Let me remind you how it goes:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.
Except for the God part, I’m down with that. It took me the entire year to accept the things I cannot change, and now it’s time for me to work on the courage and wisdom parts.
I love you, Rob, and I miss you like crazy, and hope someday to see you again, but not anytime soon. I also hope this afterlife thing really exists because if it doesn’t that would really be the fucked-up shit.
Peace out, dude.