Lost Love Letters

by Cheryl Shireman

  With love eternal,

  Mummy xxox

  Karin Cox

  Karin Cox is an Australian editor, poet, and author who spent more than fifteen years working in the trade-publishing industry in Australia and the UK. She is the founder of the Indie Review Tracker website and she edits and writes in her “spare time” while juggling being a full-time mum to an adorable toddler and to a black cat with the improbable name of “Ping Pong.” Karin has written more than 28 trade-published books and has self-published three: Growth (poetry), Cage Life (short stories) and Hey, Little Sister (a picture book). Cruxim, a young adult dystopian novel (Float), and another children’s picture book (Pancakes on Sunday) are soon to follow.

  Find Karin online at karincox.wordpress.com

  Heather Marie Adkins

  Dear Cory,

  How has it been five years since we laid you to rest?

  Funny how time can seem so short and so long at once. I swear it feels like just yesterday you stole over to my house in the middle of the night with two friends, and the four of us went joyriding. Four kids, early twenties, not a care in the world between us as we drifted down the highway beneath a dark, starry sky and talked as if it would be the last time.

  But likewise, it feels a lifetime ago. That was the last time I would ever see you. Ever hug you, hear your voice, see your smile, or laugh along with your laugh. The military took you away from home, and a rash of bad decisions took me away, too. Three years passed. There were a couple phone calls, sure. Five-minute catch-ups, “I miss you” and “I love you’. But I never saw your face again.

  The week between getting news and getting you home was the longest, darkest of my life. I know that I worked, I slept, I ate, I did everything I usually did, but I remember nothing. Robotic, in total shock that someone I loved so very much would never be with me again. We prepare for death from a very early age, but when we do, we’re preparing for the death of our grandparents, our parents, our aunts and uncles. The people older than us. We never, ever think it necessary that we should prepare for the death of someone our own age.

  I don’t remember much from that week. I struggled through the days. It was a chore to get out of bed, to take care of life, because what was life without you in it? I’d lost one of my best friends, and I didn’t get to say goodbye. I was so numb I couldn’t feel my fingers or my face.

  The day of your funeral was bitterly cold, not only outside, but inside me, too. It was Pawpaw’s birthday—I know, how messed up is that? He was so damn proud of you: His grandson, the firefighter, the United States Marine. You were going places. We all knew it. The world knew it. But there we were at your final destination, and it wasn’t a leadership position in the military you loved. Two tours in Iraq, five years fighting fires when you were on leave, and you were killed in a fucking car accident.

  They took your coffin to your grave, transported atop one of our grandfather’s fire trucks with the lights flashing. I was wearing these awful black high heels because the dressy pants Mom had bought me were too long and drug across the ground. I chose to walk the whole way, across the hard, frozen grass, thinking to myself, “Who cares if my feet hurt? Cory’s dead.” The pain grounded me, I think. I wanted to feel something other than total annihilation.

  And your grave, this rectangular hole where your body would be stored forever. They tried to make it nice: putting down carpet, having chairs and flowers and pictures, but you know what? It was still just a fucking black abyss beneath the soil where you would descend and disappear.

  My stepdad put his suit jacket around my shoulders while they folded the flag from your coffin. I cried when they handed it to your mom. My GOD, your mother. Strong, beautiful Aunt Glinda. Her face was so white, so ravaged by the abrupt loss of her only child. My pain was nothing to hers. It couldn’t hold a candle to how she felt. And if I was devastated, she was devoid of life.

  But nothing compares to the sound of your Last Call. I really lost it then. My stepdad had to hold me on my feet. My knees were weak, the pain so hot and vile inside me. I remember clinging to him for my very life, unable to breathe, unable to see, unable to believe. I thought I would die, cease breathing and collapse into the very ground that was about to take you from me. And then the twenty-one gun salute from your brothers, a boom, a sharp crack I felt deep in my chest and the wail that came from me couldn’t have been human. It chills me now to think about it; there are goose bumps on my skin and tears in my eyes. Such an awful, dark moment. Irreversible. I will remember the sound for the rest of my life.

  I put off my first graveside visit for six months. I thought if I could still imagine my phone ringing and answering it to your voice saying, “Hey, shithead,” then I could fool myself into believing that you weren’t really gone. Standing before your stone, one hand pressed to the beautiful engraved image of your smiling face, I felt you again.

  So you know the big secret before the rest of us—show off. I can see you in the afterlife doing the ‘neah neah neah’ thing and pointing at us like we’re the idiots because we don’t know what death means. I just hope you aren’t sticking around to wait on us. The world needs you in it, even if it’s not this existence, this life I loved in you. A little color is gone because you’re no longer here, but someone somewhere needs the craziness that is Cory Adkins.

  The leaves are about to change, and you aren’t with us to see them. I like how some leaves turn orange on only one side, as if unsure whether they really want to take that leap into autumn. I still remember your voice and your shit-eating grin. I still remember some of the silly faces you would make when you were talking, and how animated you were anytime you had something to say. But you’re fading, like a country song played and played until I no longer appreciated it, yet now that I want to hear it, the DJs aren't taking requests. I feel like maybe I took you for granted, that I was stupid because I thought you would always be there. I hate myself for that.

  Krystyna had her baby, and you don’t know him. Lots of money was donated to the Crusade for you, but selfish me, I wish it hadn't been, because I wish you were still alive. I moved back home; I'm a Dispatcher now, you would be so proud of me. Always an Adkins, right? Erica got married. I think Jason is good for her, but God, I wish you could have been there at the reception to embarrass the hell out of her like we all know you would. Dakota is older now, and he knows your name and he sees your pictures around the house, but it breaks my heart into a million tiny pieces to look at his smile and realize he will never actually know you the way I did.

  I hate that you will never drink another soda. You will never hug your mom again. You will never respond to another fire run or fire another gun to protect our country. You won’t drive another car. You won’t kiss another girl or fall in love once more. I drink a glass of water, and I wonder if you ever drank much water. Not a question one person usually asks another, but I wish I knew the answers to all the silly questions I have for you now. You won’t grow old and start stories with ‘I remember when...’ You won’t laugh at something stupid on TV. You can’t hear the new great country songs! You won't get on Myspace again. The last log on date will always be Dec 2007.

  I want our childhood back. I want to play in the hoses on the top of the fire trucks with you again. I want to change your SCBA during training and know you’re breathing. I want to send sugar-free Lifesavers to the Middle East. I want to put on a bad Chinese movie and turn off the sound. Your version of dialogue was always better, anyway. And accurate.

  I hurt so bad. I dream of you and I don't want to wake up, because if I can only stay asleep, then I can stay with you. The dreams are fewer and farther between now, though. I hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it. I want them back, I want you back, I don’t want to forget the sound of your voice, or the memories I have with you. I look forward into the future and it’s just that tiny bit bleaker because I know you won’t be there. It terrifies me to think of growing older, because I know my memory will fade with time, and the da
y will come when I can’t remember as much about you as I do now. I don’t want you to ever fade away from me! I'm so weary of crying for you. I just want to talk to you one more time, to tell you I love you, to tell you that I will never forget you and I will be with you again one day. I hope you’re here with me. I hope you stand beside me and you see the joys and sorrows of my life that is to come. My life without you in it isn’t as shiny, but the hope that you’re watching over me sustains me even through my darkest days.

  God I miss you. You were too young to die.

  A year later, we celebrated Pawpaw’s birthday with a bash at the firehouse, and it’s a much better memory to associate with that day. The trucks were pulled from the bay, the little kids running amok and knocking fire gear off the racks while the firefighters just laughed. The training room and kitchen were full to the brim of people I’ve known since I was a little girl wreaking havoc at the fire station. Bobby and I reminisced about things we remember, and got silent as we realized almost every memory we have of the fire department includes you, Cory.

  Long after Bobby walked away, I sat in my usual spot on 5055, tucked into the corner under the ladder, and I remembered many days with you beside me in the other corner, talking and laughing.

  And now, five years after we lost you, I’ve lived longer than the age you were when you died. The term “bittersweet” sits heavy on my mind.

  Here’s to you, Cory. I lift my glass to the sky and toast your successes, your failures, the person you were. In my mind, you will always be handsome, forever young, the best damn cousin a girl could ever have.

  Shithead.

  ~ Heather

  Heather Marie Adkins

  Heather Marie Adkins is author of the bestselling novel, The Temple. Heather loves to garden, cook, and travel, and would give anything to live in a cottage in Ireland. She currently resides in Kentucky with the love of her life and nineteen pets.

  Find Heather online at heathermarieadkins.com

  Lynn Hubbard

  Dear Aunt Susie,

  One of my earliest memories of you, you weren’t there at all. You were 18 years old, very sick and in the hospital. I was too young to go in your room, so every time my family visited, I and my sister received a new comic book to read while we waited.

  The waiting rooms were stark white, not colorful as they are today. I was about 6 and my sister, Lisa, was 8. Things were different back then, safer I guess. So we were left in the waiting room, alone with our Archie comic books, to read and pass the time. We would get a new one from the gift shop each time we visited. My sister and I would trade off, and read each other’s when we finished our own. I still recall the full page ad on the back, Sea Monkeys. I always wanted to clip out that coupon and send it in.

  After loads of tests, you were diagnosed with a rare kidney disease. They gave you lots of medicine to treat it and you got better. You were back to yourself in no time.

  You were always our favorite babysitter; you and my Aunt Patty would let us do anything we wanted. I can vividly recall sliding down the stairs in our snowmobile outfits. I hated winter and was quite happy when we moved from Michigan to Tennessee.

  You moved as well with our grandparents, so we still saw you often. I remember our parents taking us to visit you at the restaurant you worked at-Jerry’s. You would buy us drinks from the fountain with your tip money. I always wanted to grow up to be like you. To work and make my own money to do whatever I wanted to do.

  Then you got married, to some guy I didn’t know. It didn’t last though, and you were soon back home, with a baby on the way. You didn’t seem to miss him much. Why should you when you had us?

  I had a ball while shopping for tiny baby clothes. Being the youngest, I wasn’t around babies much. I recall driving hours, it seemed like, to Nashville for your doctor appointments. The baby was a strain on your kidneys, so you had to be monitored often.

  I was ten when he was born by Cesarean section at Vanderbilt. He was a big boy! I was still too young to visit legally, but I was more cunning then. My sister and I kept watch until the hallway was empty, and made our way to your room.

  You were doing great, but your roommate was very sad. Her twins came too early, they were in intensive care. We normally weren’t allowed, but she okayed us to go back and visit them. I have never seen anything so tiny. I remember one weighed 12 ounces, the size of a can of pop. The other was about two pounds. I always wondered if they had survived. I hope they did.

  Well Jeremy Nevle, named after his grandfather, was a strong, healthy boy. He had curly blonde hair and blue eyes. He was about three years old when we moved to New Jersey.

  You moved too. Back to Michigan, with my grandparents and Jeremy. Not sure why you moved back. After living in Tennessee, I hated snow. And New Jersey had its share.

  You came to visit us once, all of you flew over. We visited New York City and the Delaware River. My Grandmother loved flowers and had a green thumb that apparently skipped me. At one of the Botanical Gardens they had beautiful flowers, and signs clearly marked to not pick them.

  Well, my Grandmother didn’t pick them. She dug them up by the roots to take home. You don’t mess with women who lived during the Great Depression. Of course she said they were always so poor in Kentucky, they didn’t know about any recession. Poor was a way of life.

  We visited the Jersey Boardwalk. Atlantic City is like a life size monopoly board! And they had the craziest shops! I was a teenager then, and I remember wanting a pack of naughty playing cards.

  Being my favorite Aunt, you bought them for me and snuck them out of the store. My parents were VERY upset at both of us when they found them in my room. Sorry Aunt Susie.

  Eventually we ended up in Michigan too. One of the best nights of my life is when you took me, my sister Lisa, my cousin Renee, and Jeremy to a haunted house. Lisa lost her shoe, Renee peed on herself, and Jeremy was scarred for life. But it was a night I will always remember.

  One good thing about Michigan was Halloween, your favorite holiday. Michigan is flat as a board, and the houses are about an inch apart, so you can hit fifty or sixty in a single night! You always took us trick or treating and would even dress up as well. We would get pillow cases full of treats, go home to unload, and out for more. Halloween is just not the same anymore.

  Sometimes life moves too quickly, before I knew it, Jeremy was a teenager. And I had married and ended up with two boys of my own.

  You moved to Georgia, where we now lived and even watched my boys from time to time. I was blessed by a divorce and as adults, we somehow grew even closer.

  You had been fighting your kidney disease for twenty years now and it was taking its toll. You were unable to work. Having had hundreds of kidney stones over the years, you were in much pain and very frail. But, still in good spirits.

  Jeremy grew up, got married and had a child. All of the goals you had set for your life were being checked off. Then your kidneys started to fail. You needed to start dialysis.

  I went to the hospital with you to have your fistula surgery, to make dialysis easier. I stayed with you during set up and you told me: you were glad I was there, that you were scared to die alone. I assured you, that you would be just fine and left to sit in the finely decorated waiting room. I was alone this time, not even an Archie to read. It grew dark outside, American Idol came on, and finally a doctor arrived, it was tougher than they expected. Your veins were so weak. But the surgery was done. You started dialysis, choosing the first morning session before dawn, so it wouldn’t ruin your day. You woke up and drove yourself several times a week.

  They suggested a kidney transplant but they wanted to remove your bad kidneys first. You see with Renal Tubular Acidosis your kidneys made stones, so they had to remove them. Once you healed, they would put a good kidney back in, if any became available. Your siblings went down to get tested for matches, but you refused. You just couldn’t part with a piece of yourself. Or perhaps, you were just tired of fighting. You had
been through so much. On some dark days; you even spoke of ending it all. But I was there for you. And if I could have taken away your pain, I would have.

  Spring was here and one day in my mother’s kitchen you told me what had happened at your last dialysis session. An air bubble had gotten into the tube and your limbs contracted horribly, you were in so much pain. It passed with time but you vowed to me that you would not live like that. That you would never go through that again. And I believed you. You had already made your wishes clear and had filled out the forms stating them. You didn’t want to be kept alive on machines.

  And the next day while I was at work, you were rushed to the hospital. You couldn’t breathe. A blood clot broke loose and entered your lung. You were too ill to do surgery. And the family came, but I was the first. And then my mom.

  They were doing tests so we couldn’t see you. Again, I was waiting at the hospital. Older now, and wiser to things I wish I never knew.

  We heard your voice in the hallway. Your unmistakable high pitched sound, you were talking to someone. My mother and I looked at each other and we went up and down the hallways looking for you. There was nobody there.

  When you were wheeled down the hall minutes later, you were not conscious and an oxygen mask was helping you breath. My sister arrived as did Jeremy and his family. We took turns visiting with you.

  As a lifetime asthmatic, I know about breathing, your oxygen level kept dropping lower and lower. Jeremy couldn’t take it and left the building. His only parent was leaving him.

  Against your wishes you were put on a breathing machine to help sustain your life. It helped for a little while as we stood around your bed watching your body lift up off the mattress with the force of each breathe.