Dear Rob,
I wonder what you would think of me now. If you were here, what would we talk about? Before, we talked mostly of our love, about work and about moving into our own place. We talked of love and passion and sex and blow jobs. We talked of silly jokes and military life and I listened to you speak to me in Portuguese. A language I never learned but still think of trying every now and again.
But what would we talk of now? What I've been doing since you left, most likely. How funny. Saying 'you left' sounds like you took a job in Alaska instead of dying five hours after I discovered my pregnancy with Joey. Your last gift. My last child.
Though sometimes I still wish I could have more. Adopt or -- anything. But Paul doesn't want anymore and (maybe) it wouldn't be the same anyway. Because it's occurred to me that maybe I want more children so I can be reminded of the life I no longer have with you. It's a way of missing you, of missing something that hadn't happened yet; a dream we had together. Did you remember you wanted seven children?
I still smile at that. We could've done it -- you and me. And all your Portuguese family. That family is mine, too, if I allow it.
I'm not close to your family, Rob. There. I feel mean and little and hard. But I'm not close to them. Oh, it's not intentional. It's not a conscious attempt to block them out. It's the same with all friends I've moved away from. We just migrate. Lose touch. Though your mom won't allow that too much. She still calls once a week or so and checks in. I'm glad she does.
Joey actually talked to her yesterday. He doesn't like to talk to her on the phone usually. It may just be that he won't be a phone person. Or maybe he blames her for his homesickness when he spent a month in Massachusetts this summer. Who knows. I'm awed at how much I don't know about our children.
There it is again, Rob. "Our" children. They are as much Paul's children as yours, yet I feel compelled to call them 'our' children when I talk to you and 'our' children when I talk to Paul. It's weird. I guess they really are all "our" children. All three of ours. You fathered them in the biblical sense -- biologically. But Paul's been the 'Dad' for the last seven years.
So maybe I should tell you about this Paul guy: He loves them. He truly does. He hangs with them, holds them when they're sad or hurt, kisses them good-night and plays with them.
He does work long hours and wishes to spend more time with them, so he's started going into work a little late -- stealing minutes to give back to Aubrey and Joey.
Aubrey's still a daddy's girl - though not as much as with you when she was 20 months old. She likes school, Harry Potter, magic, fairies, music and art. She's in choir for her fourth year and I just watched her dance with my scarf on the side of the road yesterday. Music was playing in the streets as we watched a parade going by. She's at once self-conscious and courageously and artistically spiritual. She's at home with who she is but can and will weep when she feels unjustly used or put upon.
She is me. But looks like you. Paul said one day that "Aubrey always looked like Aubrey. In her baby pictures -- she always looked like her." And Paul is right, too. It's true. She still looks like her baby pictures -- yet I see glimpses of the young woman that is coming fast. Before I'm ready, I fear.
Joey looks more like a Hanna -- my mom's side of the family. So more of me. And he's an Aries sign -- just like me. And he's got a fire-y temper that burns off fairly quickly --just like me. But I suspect he has a lot more of you in him. Interesting things that I pause and wonder at. Like, he has imaginary friends - tons of them - but not in the sweet "isn't that cute?" way. More like the goblins hiding in the closet to steal the baby in that movie "The Labyrinth." Though in a sad way - not evil.
He has a 'friend' that, I suspect, corrolates to each different facet of his personality. Fun boy, Punching Boy, Quiet Boy, Skateboarding Boy.
When his temper and frustrations get the better of him (as happens often), he gets rough and aggressive with the people he's around. No matter if they are adults, children or pets. Afterwards he feels bad about it and seeks comfort from me. When I talk to him about it, he says peculiar things about his "friends." His "friend" told him to do it. His mind told him to do it -- not him. And for a couple of months, his "friends" wanted him dead. It was quite alarming actually. I've wondered if he could be depressed like you and your grandfathers were. It does run in the family. I watch and wonder. And wait.
Joey tried to "feed the good wolf," as he put it one day after a friend used that expression. But sometimes he's just not successful. Poor kid. He loves snakes, sharks, Tom and Jerry, and bugs. But not bees.
And now I'm wondering about me. And you. I wonder if you'd like me now. Resonate with who I am and what I stand for now. I'm still not Catholic -- though I did have Joey baptized to carry on the tradition, so to speak. And to quiet your mom.
Me. Who am I now? Well, I dated a little after Joey was born. I journaled a lot. I treated myself monthly to nurturing pedicures and massages. I bought a house and had it fixed up. And I met Paul.
I think you know him from other lives, Rob, but I only remember one. I get the sense that you wanted me to be with him in this other life. You died in that one, too. And Paul was our friend and you wanted Paul to care for me, and for me to seek comfort with Paul after your death. Strange that it happened again -- sort-of.
I went to massage school and I'm a licensed massage therapist now. I'm serious about my writing and I've got a bit of art on the wall and shelves around my house. After you died, I did a lot of my healing in art. I started working with clay and dabbled in painting and always wrote. I meditated and journaled and channeled and cried and healed. I tried to parent as best I knew how, with the strength I had. And Paul helped.
We share things, Paul and I. He'd parent when I was sick or at school; I'd parent when he'd had a bad day at work. Paul encourages me to continue expressing myself creatively and never nags at me to do the housework.
Do you remember the time you said, "What do you do all day?" You were looking at the toys on the floor, the unmade bed and the dishwasher half-loaded.
I remember other things, too. I remember your giggle when you were excited. It wasn't your regular laugh you shared with everyone, it was the one you only used with me, when you were being tickled or caught off-guard sexually. It was the giggle you giggled when I showed you the pregnancy test for Joey. You jumped up and down in the bathroom, penis flopping. Giggling.
I hugged you -- "We're having a baby."
But now? If I was pregnant right now with your baby I'd still hug you and say "We're having a baby." But it would be different. I'd do it based on who I am now.
Cloth diapers, breastfeeding for a year, organic baby food, no plastic toys - only wood and natural materials like organic wool, silk and organic cotton. Natural dyes, Waldorf-y toys. Homeschool. Unschool.
I'm homeschooling Joey -- did I tell you? I think you'd approve.
Oh, and I have prayer flags on my front porch and goddess flags in my living room. I rarely watch TV and I mow the lawn with a push reel mower -- no gasoline. I recycle. I compost. I use no harsh cleaners (no more bleach for your warts). I even bike when I can, instead of drive, and hang the clothes outside to dry. Organic everything if I have the choice, homeopathic or naturapathic medicine only. Alternative diets and yoga.
Yeah. My life has changed a bit since I've known you.
But I still miss you. And I still wish we were together. I love you.
Love, Valerie
