I still want to share with you all of the things that we talked about, and enjoyed. I still want to email you at the end of each day. Still want to run home to talk with you on Friday nights, be it via Skype or phone. Drive eleven hours to visit you. Yeah, I’d do it all again, because I never wanted it to end. All of your writings sit close to my office, all still in the order that you left them. Someday soon, I’ll go through it all. You told me that it doesn’t matter what happens to it. But it does, and it does to me. And always will.
Last month, during a quiet moment, I decided to visit your Facebook page to make myself feel better. I couldn’t find it. The links, the page, anything. And for lack of a better phrase, I absolutely freaked out. Going through the laptop that you left me, I discovered that if one doesn’t log into a Facebook page for eleven months, the account is snoozed, then deleted once a full year has passed. I had logged in three days before your account was going to be deleted. I figured out how to log in, and your account was instantly back online. I’m still not prepared to let you go, Jan, anymore that I’ve already had to. Sentimental? Unwilling to budge any more than life forces me to? Yes, on all counts, Jan. And I know that you felt the same way.
Today, I remind myself that you are still us. As long as those of us that knew and loved you speak your name. As long as your voice still guides us through this complicated maze of existence. For as long that your life bettered those around you, and we are still better because of you, you are still here. We will always miss you, and those missing pieces will continue to stay with us, until we someday see each other again. Your story goes on, and there will always be birthdays to celebrate. Be it in this place, or wherever your adventures now take you to.
Happy birthday, Jan. I wish you could be here. But I know that you still are.
All my love,
August 16, 2020