If you’d rather read than listen, here are the same words.
Hi. It’s Martine.
This is the last Saturday. Twelve weeks. Can you believe it?
Twelve weeks ago, the loss was very fresh. The first e-mail arrived, and you said yes to something tender.
Since then, you’ve done so much. You’ve written stories. You’ve said their name. You’ve found three words for them. You’ve laughed at the ridiculous list. And you’ve gathered them into a notebook that holds the whole shape of your love.
You’ve done a remarkable amount of remembering.
Thank you, for letting me walk with you. Thank you for opening these emails. And thank you for the love you carry — which spilled into these weeks, and made them what they were.
They are different now. And still here. In your stories. In your softer way of moving through the world. And in the small things that surprise you with their memory.
In three months, a small note will arrive. A soft return.
Until then: you loved them well. They knew.
And they always will.