Writing to the dead

In 2007, Dan died from suicide. In 2008, I started a blog.

Psychic John Edward once told a client that the loved one who had crossed saw the letters that were written to him and felt as if he was still part of the client’s life. This blog became my letters to the dead.

“Notes for all my beloveds who crossed over. “

Before the digital age of blogs and vlogs, we used to write. We used long-hand cursive, sometimes print. We would write letters, cards, diaries, in appointment books. Typing was for newspapers, term papers, office work, not for personal correspondence.

My grandmama hand wrote letters, invitations, thank you notes, etc. whether the person lived a great distance or just down the street. For years, she kept a diary and wrote in it every day. She was so consistent in writing entries that her diary was used as evidence in a court case. Grandmama’s handwriting was legible with small embellishments.

Never would you see the text-isms you see today. No “R U ready?” or “I C U.”

My handwriting used to be decent; not ornate; not lovely, but legible. I made an attempt at learning calligraphy, but it is not one of my talents. I feel my handwriting deteriorated during the COVID lockdown. It looks more like scribbling than writing.

My oldest brother’s handwriting was next to illegible. He and I worked for the same convenience chain and we were both managers. We had to hand in the same paperwork every Friday. The areas supervisor made a comment about not being able to read Scott’s writing, so I read it for her. Carol said “God love you! You can read a second language!”

I recently read a wonderful post in The Bitter Southerner. It was Letter from Home by Imani Perry. It’s about the different types of letters written by her grandmother and mother, but also about letters from home “which are spoken as wordless words, especially the letters M and H.” I can mentally hear and understand the “Mm mm mm” and “Mmhmm” that she references.

The part that spoke to me most was

“Here’s another thing I know, but don’t know what to do with just yet. Living is a series of hellos and goodbyes. And that is hard if you have the great fortune of love. Now, when I return home there’s yet another missing face, my cousin Dwayne — the one who I always saw at home, who I never imagined would cease smiling at me. There’s a cavern in my chest where a bear hug was reliable. His heart gave out. It is terrible. And now I know I should stop using heartbreak as a metaphor because the devastation of a literally broken heart is so much vaster than lovesickness. I say his name in prayer. I don’t know if he can hear me, but I’m counting on it like a 12-bar blues song. I’m sending him notes. And him too.  And her and her and her and her. Notes for all my beloveds who crossed over. But they aren’t made of words. They’re a grief dirge, a moan. A love letter to home.“

by Imani Perry for The Bitter Southerner

This is for all those who have gone before. I love you all and miss you ever single day/