Dear Eric

Dear Eric,

I have been completely and entirely unable to write a blog entry because nothing was right or seemed good enough. You are dead, which is a big deal, and no matter what I think I have to say, it always feels terrible and un-worthy when I think of using this blog as a vessel.

Vessel. That conversation plays and re-plays in my head. Me and Sylvia and our ex-boyfriends, Michael and Mike, were sitting on the terrace (which you know so well) getting drunk and smoking cigarettes. Suddenly you appeared in your backyard, or your parents' backyard, and you called to us. You just got back from a trip to Costa Rica. Could you come up and hang out a bit.

You climbed up the high brick wall that separates the two buildings' backyards and then, somehow, up the side of the bricked building and onto the terrace on the second floor. Which means you climbed three flights because the backyards are basement level. I seriously couldn't believe you did it. Then you tried to act like it was no big deal but it was a bit (at least a tiny bit) of a struggle and you were a little out of breath.

You started to tell us about South America and your relationship with your father. It was heart-wrenching for me. There was a loneliness about you that no amount of spiritual work and joy and contentment could dissipate. You wanted to show us pictures; you had to get your laptop. You left the normal way, through the door of the apartment and down the stairs and over the planter that separates the buildings' front entrances, which we climbed over repeatedly, day after day, often several times a day, as children.

You came back with a half bottle of brandy that you probably stole from your mother and your laptop and you showed us these gorgeous pictures of a happy and grown-up you, which was almost too much to take. Because it was the screaming death of our childhoods; you were no longer a boy, and my life was passing me by in a series of busy waitressing shifts and drinking and hospital visits and researching brain surgery and brain tumors and fighting and just generally dying, you know; speeding my way towards a horrible and pathetic death.

"You're actually hot," my sister said, laughing, pushing your shoulder a bit and pointing with her other hand-finger at one of the many tanned and shirtless photos of you. You'd been working out. It was crazy. Because we only knew you as a skinny little twirp.

We moved back outside after the pictures. Back into the beautiful New York City summer heat to chainsmoke and drink some more. Your brandy was more delicious than the gin and tonics we'd been drinking. I was getting sick of these gin and tonics.

My sister brought up certain childhood sexual acts and you happily joined in the conversation. I loved this, because hardly anyone does this. Everyone has these innocent childhood sexual experiences; but most people are scared to deal with anything. But as we know, me and you and Sylvie are far from being 'anyone'.

You were traveling around the world and dealing with your issues and finding yourself. Alive and free. Me, my crazy red heart was in-waiting, ready to burst out of my chest. It sometimes trembled in fear that I'd wait too long to change; wait too long to get the freedom I was so desperate for.

And Sylvie would never be trapped for as long as me. We were trap-able, yes; we had issues that were apparent by the fact that we were always in relationships; that we settled and then were (quite quickly)unhappy, but had to stay on for a bit. Bla bla bla. But Sylvie's always had more self-respect and self-esteem than me, she's always been a bit more quick on the uptake or some shit. So actually it was like she was in the middle of us.

You were this bursting-with-life sun-filled star. You were glowing orange. You were smiling like a fucking drug addict in the best high of their life. Except you were really alive. And you told us that so many things had changed inside of you, that you now knew things that you never knew before.

You told us that we were just vessels; just passing through with the lives we were now living, in our temporary bodies. Our bodies were vessels for our souls. There was a much vaster journey of life. We were practically nothing. Our ridiculous everyday concerns were un-important. We needed to get out there and live. To go on these spiritual journeys so that we could be a part of the larger and inner world; that great big energy that we cannot even begin to understand on our own.

Quit our jobs, travel, live live live, love and be loved, but truly, fully. With total freedom. Luckily our boyfriends were either plain bored or had no idea what you were talking about.

I was so happy for you, but glad when you left so that we didn't have to hear it anymore. I was even more glad when the boyfriends went to bed, so that me and Sylvie were left to report to each other on the evening, and drink some more.

"He's gone fucking crazy," I said, taking a deep drag of my cigarette.

"He has."

"He's happy."

"Yeah, he's beautiful."

"He is."

Anyway Eric, I know your soul has probably joined another body somewhere far away and so you are too busy to be hanging around here watching Erica repeatedly and concentrate-dly flip pages in a book or make some of her first pee into her pottie. But I hope you know something about how happy I am, how much joy bursts into and through me on a regular basis, really for the first time in my life. How much freedom and love I have in my heart and in my life. How beautiful Colin turned out to be after couples counseling, how beautiful he can sometimes be. How good he takes care of me and Erica and Graham. I hope you know how much you've affected Sylvie. How I don't have to worry too much that she'll settle any more than I would settle now. How your light streamed into her and got trapped when you died. She will always resist the desire to give in, to be lazy, to live sadly.

I think of you every single day. Sometimes I am angry, but usually I am sad and grateful. Grateful to have known you, grateful to have re-learned and learned and to be re-learning your wholesome, all-encompassing love. And most of all, grateful for this life. For whatever time we have here, for whatever it has been made up of. Which in all of our cases, it is made up of exactly what we choose. And of course, our time is short, and so, so precious. Love is everything. Wake up and live.

Goodnight beautiful man.

P.S., If people reading this are anything like me, they are thinking that I have idealized my friend who died, since almost-nobody is full of love. But Eric really was full of love. It was weird. He loved like we are supposed to love. He was amazing.