I wonder...

I sometimes wonder who you’d be. You’d be a 39 year old man. You’d be my children’s uncle. But who else? Would you be married? Would you have children? I fantasize that you would; I would love to be your children’s aunt. I imagine how you would have aged these past 21 years. I imagine you would’ve filled out a bit, maybe cut your hair. I even imagine your beautiful wife, and your children, how they may have had your dimple or your light brown hair or your quirky smile. My son has your eyes, you know?

And then I wonder, what would you be doing? With your passion and talent for music, I’m sure you would still be a musician on some level (probably many). And I remember the video game you were working on; you could’ve been a game developer. And your drawings and writings lead me to believe that you could’ve been a thought provoking political satirist or social commentator.

I’ve imagined you at my wedding, at the births of my children, and other special events that I've wished we could've shared. I’ve also imagined simple interactions like just talking on the phone, or sharing a hug and a kiss hello or goodbye at family gatherings.

What would our conversations be like as adults? The last time I spoke with you I had just moved 600 miles away from home and you were still in high school. It was a brief and superficial conversation, probably because mom made you take the phone while you were busy doing whatever. We were at that stage where we weren’t as close as we had been when we were children, yet hadn’t yet reconnected as adults.

Did you know that I was looking forward to becoming close to you again? Pat and I had begun to be closer since we were out of high school and out on our own, and I thought, soon Kevin will be a part of my world again. Who knew that the follwing year I would be struggling with the thought that we would never be a part of the same world as long as I lived?

It’s been 21 years and I have adjusted. I can think of you and talk about you without crying. Your death has become a part of my life; a fact that over the years has become easy for me to accept. I used to be afraid that if I stopped grieving for you, that would mean that I no longer cared, or that I'd somehow start forgetting you. I now know that’s not true. In fact, the grief no longer distracts me from my memories and my musings. The importance of you in my life is no longer distorted through pain and grief. I knew you for 18 years and that informs who I am in beautiful ways, and the experience of your death has forged me in ways I don’t want to change. Isn’t that funny? I miss you so much and I would love to have you in my life again, yet I willingly accept the way things are. My secret is that you still are a meaningful part of my life, and the times I've dreamt of you, of laughing with you, and sharing an embrace have felt so real, I've awakened from them feeling fulfilled.

Why am I 43 years old and you were only 18? Why do I feel like I’m finally settling into myself when you were finished so long ago? I don’t know. It's an interesting question though, one to which I'm OK not knowing the answer.