Dear Ethan,
Hello little brother. I hope you're doing well. I'm sure you're doing better now than you were the last time we spoke. For so long, your eyes have held a pain that you couldn't fix. Your body has carried a burden you weren't able to bear. I'm sure that weight is gone and your pain is lifted. I know your eyes are clear and you're walking tall under bright blue skies. Sometimes, thinking how happy you must be now brings a smile to my own face. That and knowing that you've probably had a least a dozen of Ma Mary's warm hugs. And you've seen Pa Booker. And of course Jesus.
I want to say sorry. For so many things. First, I'm sorry I never wrote you when you were in jail. But you never wrote me either. I'm sure if you had asked for my address, Grandma or Momma would have given it to you. So maybe you just didn't want to write me. Reading Momma's letters though, I wish I had some of my own. Reading them I can hear your voice and even though it's hard and sad, it's nice to hear.
I'm sorry I never called. But you never called either. You never asked for my number. So maybe you didn't want to talk. Maybe you knew yourself better than we give you credit for sometimes. You were prone to calling those you loved and complaining, fussing and blaming. Cussing sometimes. I like to think you cared enough about me and my opinion of you that you didn't want to risk doing that with me. So while we both missed out on the potential good calls, you spared me the bad ones too.
I'm sorry we didn't talk more.
I wish when you talked to me about one day getting your life straightened out and having kids I was more enthusiastic. It wasn't that I didn't want you to get your life straight. Because I wanted it more than I could ever say. Or because I didn't want you to have kids. Because I did! Being an aunt to your kids would have been awesome. They could come hang out with my kids. We could have taken turns babysitting. The kids could spend the night together. Christmas would have been a wild rumpus of wrapping paper and screaming, snotty-nosed little people. I tried to keep enthusiasm in check because I didn't want you to jump into something before you were ready for it. Especially if that something involved a baby. Babies are a serious business after all.
I wish I had made sure to tell you how much my kids liked you. Rather than assuming you guessed it from their enthusiasm and from what family told you. I wish I had told you more often that I loved you. Because I did. And I do. And I always will. I wish I had given you more hugs. Because you gave such excellent hugs. I wish we had spent more time together during the last five years. Not just holidays and special occasions. But weekends and meals and just hanging out together. I wish I had more good memories with you from the last few years. But I'm really glad I don't have more bad memories. I wish I had more pictures of you. I didn't realize until after you were gone that we have no pictures of you with my kids. As much as they meant to you, I hate that I didn't make sure and get some shots of Uncle Ethan with the three Es.
I'm sorry things didn't go differently for you. That you weren't able to get free from your addiction and get better. I'm sorry that you got addicted in the first place.
I miss you. Which is weird kinda. Because you weren't really a part of my every day life. And yet I think I have thought about you every day since we learned you passed away. I miss you. Your death has left a hole in my life that I would never have expected.
Momma said something after your funeral that helped me a lot. That has made my regret easier to bear. Repeating it in my head stops my tears. None of us knew we were working with an expiration date. We didn't know that we wouldn't have next year with you. Or the next ten years. I didn't know in August that I wouldn't be seeing you for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. When I was mad at you for not showing up on Thanksgiving, I didn't know I wouldn't be seeing you for Christmas. I thought we had time. That there would be plenty of time. And I guess that is how most people live their lives...with the expectation that there is a tomorrow. That there is a next week and a next year. Your death has reminded me that there never is. We aren't promised a next Christmas. We can't plan on doing things better next year. Or next week. We aren't promised a next breath. None of us know when our time will come. Or when the time of a loved one will come. And that knowledge has a profound effect on me. Though I am trying valiantly to not let that knowledge become something that makes me bitter or hostile or worry over much. Granted, I already worry a lot. But I'm trying to use it to remind me NOT to worry. Not to hang on to fears or failures. Because I might not have a chance to right a wrong.
All in all, it's the knowledge that you're better that is getting me through. Knowing you are happy now. That everything finally makes sense for you. That you are at peace.
Please take care of yourself. Remember that we love you. And we all miss you. For you, things are easy and good. No matter how much we miss you, none of us would ever want to change things and take you away from how much better you are now. I hope I am always able to hear your voice in my head, jokingly calling me "Big Sis" and asking how I am. I hope you're watching over us, worrying about Momma like you always have. I bet Christmas in Heaven was phenomenal and that Jesus throws a killer birthday smash. I'm sure his cake was even better than the one I made. We will all be back together one day. Until then we will miss you though.
Love always,
Your "BIG" sister
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