On a plane for the first time since getting hit by the car, little sweetheart. The doctor told me to get an aisle instead of my usual window seat, so I could move around a little, which is what you’re supposed to do after you’ve had a pulmonary embolism, like me. But they never turned the seatbelt sign off during the whole flight, there was so much turbulence, so I didn’t wind up moving too much, anyway. We did get in a little bit early, though, and your Dad picked me up. “I’m alive!”, I said as we hugged.
Your mom and dad are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary later this month, so he’s taking her to the Galapagos Islands for am adventure. I’m house sitting while they’re there and Sylvia is coming from France to help too. It’s her first time in California.
I’m in the room next to yours, upstairs. I just woke up, birdsong in the air from the orchard outside. It’s a bit like how I imagine paradise and always makes me feel so close to you. The light is on in your closet, your make up table sitting there, and it’s like you’ve just left to step into another room for a moment.
And that’s actually so, isn’t it, my little sweetheart? Your presence lingers and hovers and draws so very close at times I can almost touch you and can very much sense you. Someday soon, I’ll understand so much better and so much more more and know that you are always with me and me with you.
Until that day, please help and guide me, won’t you, little sweetheart? And take me to you the moment Heaven will allow. With all my love.