I woke up this morning, thinking of you.
When I logged into my laptop, with coffee in hand, Facebook reminded me how three years ago today, my husband, my youngest son and I flew home to Massachusetts.
Two weeks before, we’d gotten that terrible phone call.
They’d said you’d gone unconscious.
They’d said that you’d had a stroke.
We prayed so hard through the days between
You squeezing your mother’s hand suddenly
And when they’d said you had a long road of rehabilitation ahead of you.
We had so much hope that you’d come through this somehow.
Though what I remember most was sitting with you in the backyard on that warm summer day in July 2014.
We were listening to Amy Winehouse, drinking whiskey, and talking about heartbreak.
(I mean, what a cliche, right?)
But what I remember most was how easily I had slipped into sharing details with you about my most recent hurts, the latest in the litany of pain that marked that horribly emotional, difficult summer.
But that was you – you were always so open, so easy to talk to, to laugh with, and to just be. You listened and allowed me to just be what I was that summer, which was probably sad, and maybe even more than a bit emotionally broken.
And I will never forget what you said to me that day, while I wallowed in my emotions.
I don’t know how I’m gonna help, but I wanna help. I’m hearin’ ya and I want ya to know I’m here for ya. I wanna tell ya, I’m here. I’m gonna be here for ya. I wanna help ya figure this all out. Always. I’m here. I’m here for ya.
And that was so you. You always had the blunt honesty to admit to me that you didn’t know what you could do to help me, but you offered me your presence, with a standing offer to be there to help me figure it all out.
Well, Bobby I never did figure it all out, but you listened, and you were there, and that was really what I needed. It did help me, you did help me. I will always be grateful for that, for your presence, and for your help.
It was hard to say goodbye to you, Bobby.
But I am thinking of you today.
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