Dear Jonah,

Well, young man, it’s been sixteen years. That’s a long time you’ve been gone.

I think you’d be pleased to know that life goes on. We still miss you, of course, but we live very happy lives. And as I suppose should happen, there are fewer and fewer moments when I catch my breath, suddenly hit by the emotionality of your not being here. While it’s simply not true that time heals all, time will place important distance between us and trauma so that we don’t have to live with the open wound of loss but instead carry a scar (sometimes an aching scar) that quiets the anguish and allows us to integrate memories of you into our continually unfolding story.

Each year I set aside this March 5th date to give me an opportunity for reconnecting with my feelings of loss and grief. It seems appropriate. I don’t ever want your life to be reduced to an increasingly old and dusty photograph sitting on a dresser. You were so much more than that, and you’re still so much more than that.

But it sometimes takes an act of intention to remind myself I want to keep feeling that.

Visiting what I can only call “my memory bin” allows me to reconnect with those feelings. It is something I do on this day each year. I read through the (now very long) list I began on the day after you died which records as many memories of you as I’ve been able to recall. Now, sixteen years later, I rarely add to the list. But as I was fairly certain would eventually happen, those memories have begun to fade so that list has become a treasured scrapbook of your life, reminding me of the exuberant, vibrant years that I once shared with you.

This morning, as I perused my memory bin, I came across a short video that, as it did ten years ago when I first encountered it, took my breath away. You’re not in it but you’re all over it. It’s about a dog and its beloved human who share that familiar, unbreakable bond we all know so well.

One day, the dog’s human enters the hospital. Day and night, it waits for the human to reemerge. That never happens. But the person who does exit the hospital merits the dog’s recognition and love just the same.

If you’ve got the internet where you are, now’s a good time to take ninety seconds and watch the video …

The morning after you died we stumbled off an airplane in Buffalo to see you in the hospital. First things first, they needed to know if it was okay to donate your organs. Of course. To help others even amidst this tragedy was an opportunity we unanimously agreed was right for you and right for us.

Feb 14, 1990 … where it all began

To know that there are people at this very moment who are living because of you — whose eyes are seeing because of you, whose hearts are beating because of you, whose bodies are whole again because of you — brings us great comfort. Your death saved others.

Each time I view this video, thoughts collide regarding: a) the lingering heartache from your absence; and, b) the ever-renewing solace that comes from the part of your story that still continues because of the priceless gift of your donations. These thoughts and more have rushed over and through me today.

It’s good to know you can still take it out of me, boy. And that your life still resonates in the universe.

Love you forever,
Dad