An Open Letter to Josh

For those of you not up on this situation, check out His Absence, My Absence, A Letter to a Grieving Mother, Self-Advocacy and Mental Illness, and An Open Letter to a Grieving Student.

Dear Josh,

Your birthday is Tuesday. You would have been 25. I'm pretty sure you would have been excited for your car insurance rates to go down, given how financially savvy you were.

I'm not sure exactly how to commemorate this birthday. I'm sure I never will be. I'll be going to work - working in Madison Heights brings up some things that weren't so much an issue in Lansing, and that combined with some other things has made this time of year difficult. I guess I thought now that we're three years out, I'm an old pro at grieving and being brotherless and navigating the holidays without you and generally being a member of the Club To Whom the Imaginable is Now Imaginable.

I'm sure you would want me to go to work, even though my employer would understand if I didn't. I love the kids I work with and want to be there as much as I can. I don't want to have to tell them why I'm not there (not because I'm ashamed, but because people's reactions are interesting, and when I sound too matter of fact, they're shocked, but it's not appropriate for me to not sound too matter of fact), and as I outlined in my open letter to a student who asked if I'm married, I don't want to appear to be keeping too many things from them. You would make fun of me for how nerdy I am, but you would have loved them too. I'm sure you would have found a way to work in unicycling.

I'm not going to wear makeup Tuesday, for two reasons. The first is practical - if my emotions do get the best of my face, it's easier to hide. The second is that you always believed that women were most beautiful without makeup on. And you would say so. Pretty much every time I asked if you thought my makeup looked good. I guess we can call it the Little Brother's Campaign for Real Beauty.

I'm also going to wear something soft. I have a sweater picked out, but if I can figure out how to style a fleece-lined zipper hoodie to look work appropriate-ish (for a day when United Way partners may be coming for a surprise check in), I'll go for it. You loved soft things, something maybe not many people knew about you. Soft stuffed animals, soft blankets, and later, when you felt it wasn't manly to share, soft hoodies. I'll need some kind of stimulation I can use to keep myself mindful, to distract myself, to tell myself I'm channeling my pain into something manageable. Rubbing the edge of a sleeve might do the trick.

And I'll be dosed with lavender oil on my chest for calm. Probably also Lush USA Karma for energy and joy. There'll be green tea with chamomile for the same reason.

I also looked at the initial inspiration to choose love, a snippet of a facebook message from you more than three years ago after I came out to you and asked if you'd come to my commitment ceremony:

"While I don't exactly approve of your decision, it's not as big of a deal to me as it is to [other family members]. It is my intention to attend the ceremony. You are still my sister and it would be a shame if nobody from our family was in attendance."

By your definition, buddy, it was a shame. You were missed. You still are. I wish you could have been 100% supportive, but it didn't matter. You chose love. You chose to love me the best you could. I'm trying to pay that forward, although I fail a lot of days. Sara Bareilles sings that "how you love is who you are." You weren't perfect, but you loved people the way they were, and they knew it. You were easy to love because of that. I'm not. I never have been. You teased, and sometimes complained, but I knew you loved me anyway.

I'm just rambling now. I never was succinct. I tell my students that "concise" was always the hardest thing for me on the ACT. You teased me for how much I talked. I'm trying to listen better. I should have listened better to you. You became wise beyond your years in college. 

Anyway, happy quarter century, bugaboo. You're deeply missed.

Much love,

Erin