This morning I got an e-mail from Jeff, whose son died this year after being in a coma since July 2005, when he was hit by a drunk driver while cycling home. I’ve never met Jeff, an LA screenwriter, but he feels like a friend. Since the accident, he has recorded his family’s experience through a listserv for followers of Indian spiritual master Meher Baba, a community from around the globe to which we both belong. His posts have been devastating in their honesty, intimate and beautiful.
Jeff’s letters are a gift, a regular reminder to live well, love hard, and keep the faith. Here’s today’s e-mail.
Becci Robbins
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Dear friends and family,
We’re enjoying a bittersweet holiday season, our first without Danny. We often find ourselves shedding tears in unexpected times and places, as when I heard “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” in the produce section the other day. Thankfully, we’re still receiving vast amounts of love from family and friends.
Initially, we decided not to get a tree or deck the house in the old, familiar ways, feeling that each ornament or mantle dressing would be too reminiscent of Danny spreading seasonal cheer to one and all with his music and humor. But our reluctance slowly diminished: Lynn went out and got a small tree which she and Katie trimmed. And one-by-one the boxes came in from the garage and decorations found their way to the usual places.
We also planned to forego our traditional trip the day after Christmas to New Hampshire, where we have a house alongside my mother’s place on a frozen pond in idyllic woods. The first day of every winter trip was spent shoveling snow and grooming a most excellent hockey rink. Each year, we’d drag a pair of small hockey goals out of the basement and spend days and nights on the ice. We’d play marathon hockey games with local friends or with whatever family members we could persuade to come out in the cold. But more often we played one-on-one, Danny and me, for hours and hours. Long after dark, we’d be out there using a clear plastic puck illuminated by a tiny glow-stick. In a good year, we’d enjoy moonlight as well. On more than one New Year’s Eve Lynn had to call us in at midnight for the family celebration. It was the best.