My fingers traced the glass covering our happy faces. I missed my twin, with his endless positivity and his refusal to quit living even when he learned that his life had an expiration date a lotsooner than he’d been expecting. I missed the way he’d call me the “light of his life” when, in truth, he was really the brightest part of mine. I even missed his endless teasing, and the mischievous smile on his face whenever he’d done something to embarrass me beyond redemption.
But at least I had the box. It had been delivered to me by one of Jamie’s favorite nurses about a month after he’d died. Inside were exactly one hundred letters, each sealed with a specific directive about when or where I should open it.
For the day you receive this box.
For your first day at a new job.
For a day you’re feeling sad.
For a Valentine’s Day when you’re single.
For your first night in a new apartment.
For the first birthday you celebrate without me.
For a rainy afternoon.
For the day you get married.
For the day my first niece or nephew enters this world.
The letters’ contents were always a surprise. Most were lighthearted, meant to bolster my spirits or make me laugh. Some were full of hope, encouraging me to try new adventures or broaden my horizons. But a select few, the ones I treasured most, were both poignant and heartrending — interwoven with memories and the poetic injustice of a resilient young man forced to leave this earth too soon.
I’d opened about a third of them in the three years since I’d lost him, and read them so many times I’d nearly memorized their words. The others remained unopened, as crisply sealed as they’d been the day they were composed, waiting for their prescribed time. Occasionally, when I was really sad, I’d get the urge to tear them open all at once and devour Jamie’s words on a binge, as if doing so might somehow repair the cracks in my soul and mend the missing pieces he’d taken with him.
I never did, though. Jamie would’ve been pissed at me for ruining his carefully thought-out plans.
Today, I reached for a familiar blue envelope that sat near the front of the stack. I ignored the tear-stained, finger-smudged paper as I read the words scribed across the front.
For a day you wish my handsome mugwere there to make you smile.
I pulled the thin sheet from the envelope and felt my lips twist up as Jamie’s sloping hand came into view.
Hey Sis,
Obviously, since you’ve selected this particular envelope, I’m going to assume you’ve either had a rough day or Doritos has finally decided to stop producing the Cool Ranch variety. In either case, try not to panic.
If it’s the former — rough days pass. The sun will set, the earth will rotate, and a month from now you probably won’t even care that your best friend was a bitch or you had a bad day at work.
If it’s the latter — I’m sorry, because I know how much you love your Doritos, but honestly sis, at some point that metabolism of yours is going to slow down and you’ll be the size of a house. Don’t shoot the messenger! (You can’t, I’m already dead.)
Sorry. I can’t seem to stop weaving death jokes into these letters. I’m really beating a dead horse, aren’t I? (See what I did there?) Anyway, not to play the cancer card or anything, but at the very least you can be glad that your rough day probably didn’t involve a nurse walking you to the bathroom and watching you poop because you’re not quite steady on your prosthetic leg yet. Do you know how hard it is to perform with a captive audience right outside the door? Sheesh.
I love you, sis. I know none of this has been easy on you, and I know you aren’t happy right now. But you share my DNA and, since I’m no longer around, you’re pretty much obligated to share that Kincaid awesomeness with the world in my place.
Do me proud, sis.
Chin up. Smile through the tears — it helps them pass faster. (Coincidentally, I use that same strategy when trying to pass certain other bodily fluids with Nurse Charlene standing right outside the door.)
Love you.
Jamie
I smiled as I reached the bottom of the page. There was no one in the world who could cheer me up like Jamie — even now, when he was gone. I folded the letter with care and placed it back in the box, taking one last glimpse at the photo of us inside before the lid snapped closed.
In some ways, I was lucky. Not everyone who lost a loved one got to say goodbye; unexpected losses do little in terms of delivering closure. Jamie’s letters had allowed him a semblance of immortality. His body might be gone, but he’d left his heart behind with me —small pieces of himself, enmeshed in handwritten letters and imprinted on my spirit.
Every sacrifice I’d ever made for him had been worth it. I just wished they’d been enough to keep him here with me.