You touched me.

You touched me.

When you first became ill, I spent every moment I could, holding your hand. You knew I was there, I don’t care what they said. Come or no coma, I held your hand and you knew I was there. I touched you. I made sure that I spent every waking moment touching you.

I stopped going to class. I spent my studying time touching you. Skin to skin. Hearing your breaths. Going home to bed and calling the nurses on the phone to let me hear your breathing when I wasn’t physically touching you.

Then. The night before you went to heaven, I went away. I escaped to “retreat for some time for myself.” Seriously? I went over an hour away. And before the sun came up, I got the call. I would never touch you again. I drove, blind, for over an hour in the fog – screaming – to come to you. Knowing you wouldn’t be there.

I screamed. I stopped the car at rest stops to scream. I landed in the driveway still screaming.

You left without me. I wasn’t touching you. I was supposed to be touching you.

My best friend. You were my best friend. You were reality. You were kindred. You were the yellow rose. You were my blood.

The first time you touched me after that was when I was trying to figure out your damn mixer. Don’t get me wrong, I cherish everything I inherited after you went to heaven. But that mixer made me crazy. Till you grabbed me by the horns and told me to flip the lever. You touched me. That was less than six months after you left. I couldn’t breathe.

It’s been ten years. Ten. I feel you less and less. I believe that’s my fault. I don’t breathe. I don’t breathe long enough to feel you. I don’t close my eyes enough to brin you to me.

But, again, you touched me.

It was the exact day. Ten years after you went to heaven. Ten years after I wasn’t there to touch you as you passed.

I stood in my kitchen. Solid as a rock. As mommy. Doing all the things to make everyone happy. Then I stooped. I did. I laid my head on the counter and fell apart. I couldn’t feel you. I remembered everything. Our walks after the sun went down. The fires in your fireplace. My bedroom and deep bathtub at your house. The coffee you made for me, cream amount perfect. The sunroom with the plush couch. The cat who couldn’t decide where to sleep because she wanted to be with both of us when I stayed over Your oven as I made you apple cake. Your perfectly ironed clothes because my grandma, your mom, wanted to make life easier for you.

You touched me. My head on the counter. Trying to breathe. I felt your hand. You touched my back.

Stand up, Damnit, stand up. Breathe, sweetheart, breathe.

I love you.

I am always with you.

You touched me.

I’m standing.


  1. I can't even describe how moved I am by this letter. It spoke to me on a level that is unexpected. It reminds me of how I felt about my grandfather before he passed a few years ago. I'm sitting here at work in the middle of my busy day with tears streaming down my face because this letter reminds me of the people that I lost that touch me from time to time. Thank you, this is beautiful.

  2. This letter reached in and touched my core. I'm not sure how I honestly feel about the supernatural or how I would define it, but I know this experience. I know the feeling of being touched from something/someone who has passed and this letter reminded me of that moment.

    Beautiful words. Important letter.