On a note to a woman I miss.

When you left, I didn't have the tools to say goodbye. I wasn't ready.

I know this because I have them now, lying next to the bookshelf with the card games and the cookbooks. I know where they are when I need them because I've had to use them so many times since you've left.

You were worried about me. You had good cause to worry. We didn't know how I'd turn out. But I grew up strong, like you. I grew up soft, like you. I wake up in the mornings wondering what the day will bring, wondering what I'll eat, wondering who I'll talk to. And I am glad for it. All of it. Like you.

I can miss you. I can wish you were here to see me now, to see the son you raised. But it will never change the carvings on that little stone in Mahwah, never alter that date etched in the earth.

I wish you could see where I am. I wish you could meet the people I'm with. It's a good place; they are good people. But all I can do is remember that I am your child, your baby boy, and assume that you are at peace.