Dear Denise -
I was only eight when you and Caprise were born but I was beside myself with excitement at your arrival. Within months the two of you became live dolls for my friends and me. Nancy set one crib at one end of the house and another crib at the other end and I became your pretend mom, or Caprise’s. My friends and I would meet in the living room, halfway between our “homes”, and we’d discuss our babies and whether you’d cried that day and if you’d taken your bottle, things all new moms talked about, we figured. In my room lay Chatty Cathy, Chatty Baby, Baby First Steps, Pollyanna, Barbies, every doll you can imagine, but you and your sister were my favorite ones.
Most kids are jealous of the newest babies but I never was. I adored you both. I loved babysitting, taking you to the park, letting you ride my pony, helping you climb trees, and lugging you around on my shoulders. Sometimes I was the only one who could tell you and your sister apart. It was easy, really. Just look for the ornery facial expression. That was you. Mischievous and funny, your smile lit up my heart.
When you were two the family had been painting a room in the house and we were all in the kitchen taking a break. Suddenly we realized you and your sister were missing and someone yelled, “The twins!” Chairs were flung backwards and everyone ran into the living room. Too late. You guys had painted the bathroom, my dad’s truck, the porch and the dog.
One Christmas Mom bought me a record player with a record by the Archies. I was too excited to even drag it into my room and I put the record on and twirled you girls around the living room. Mom stood nearby recording us and through the years she must have played that tape a hundred times, you and your sister’s baby voices shouting out “Bang Shang a Lang!” as we danced.
You sang at church, also. Sister Ruth would say, “I think we have a song from the twins today,” and the two of you would toddle to the stage and belt it out. I hadn’t thought of that in years and then the other night as I was about to go to sleep, I heard you. “Jesus hold my hand.” YAWN. “I need thee ev’wy ‘ow-ah” (every hour).
Dad built me my own room when I was nine or ten and you girls thought it was magical and when I got home from school, I’d catch both of you in there going through all my stuff and playing with all my toys, even though you had plenty of your own. I made Dad put a lock on my door but you and your sis figured out how to unlatch it. He put the lock up higher where you couldn’t reach it, but you guys pulled a chair over, climbed on top of it, then moved onto the washing machine, tag-teaming my lock loose. You little cuss. I probably was just nervous that one of you would toddle out with my diaries.
Several years after I got married and moved to Texas, you came out and worked for Mike and me in our chiropractic clinic. The patients loved you. We trained you as therapist and from the front office where I worked, I could hear your infectious laugh, watch your skilled hand, and see your happy face. But like all teenagers, you seriously misbehaved and we had to send you back to Illinois. A few months ago you told me that saved your life. Thank you for telling me that because I never stopped feeling guilty.
I came to see you after you got married. You were working as a waitress in a nice diner and you waited on my parents and me. Holy crap you were happy and beautiful. Your hair was braided and looped up behind your head and your smile enveloped the room. Soon you’d have your two boys and I’d never seen you so in love or so proud. Not long ago you told me that you’d never stopped loving Keith, even though your marriage fell apart rather early. Tears rolled down your now-creased face when you told me that. Most of us know first-hand what it’s like for our expectations and dreams to come crashing around us, but I’m so sorry that happened to you.
Each year I drove to Illinois a few times to see my parents and there was never a time that we didn’t get together, usually every day. Those were often troubled years for you but we always loved you. One time I had three nights of dreams in a row about you and the following morning Bob and I hopped in the car and drove to Illinois to check on you. We sat on the front porch and talked about life. You were OK. Bob and I bought you a scooter because your old one had been wrecked.
One of the best decisions I made for my life was to move back to Southern Illinois nearly two years ago. I missed this land and the people and the family I had here. You and I had lunch at Giant City, munched fries at Sonic, and hung out at my house. I tried to get you to go to the spa with me but you said, “Um, I’m really not much of a spa person.” Oh, yeah. How could I have forgotten the little girl on top of my Shetland, climbing trees, being a tom-boy?
When your mom moved into assisted living recently, you started fixing up the house that the two of you had shared. You found roommates and made a work and shopping schedule and bartered some of the rent for yard work. Every week we told you how proud we were of you, how you’d stepped up to the plate and figured out how to manage a less-than-ideal situation. At your insistence I stopped by several times to see the progress you were making with the house and you bounced from room to room, showing off what you’d done. Sometimes you Facetime’d me to show me your latest project, or just texted me pictures.
Good job, Denise.
Oh God, I will miss you so so much. I really don’t have any set beliefs in the afterlife except that I believe there is one. Something beyond this world. I love our niece Carma’s words, who writes this so beautifully: “I hope you’re up there in the heavens giving the darkness a run for its money. I hope you’re setting stars on fire.” I also hope you’re running into Mom and Dad. And Keith. Because recently someone told you that Keith had never stopped loving you, either. I know you clung wildly to those words.
No one wanted you to leave, Denise, but here’s what’s made it almost bearable: you left us on a high note. You were happy and proud. You knew you were loved by all of us.
Fly high, baby girl. You’ve left a huge hole in this world but you’ve filled one in the heavens.
I love you.
I miss you.
