Dear Louise,

It's still raw.  It will be for some time.  Your son is heartbroken.  He loves you so very very much, and the gaping hole that is left in your absence is cold tonight.  When I hear Sean's silence it screams in my ears, and I can't hear anything but his loss. If loss can be heard. I don't like that sound.  It's loud.  Close.  Too much. 

And yet somehow we all know that you are okay.  There is great comfort in that.  Of course!  You are with Marilyn and Pat and your parents and all those for whom you once wept.  Yes.  You're fine.

I felt overwhelmed with panic on the way to your funeral.  I didn't want any of this to be real.  It's such a childish thing, just sitting there on a plane thinking, please let it not be true, as if suddenly it would no longer be true.  There is a finality to death that leaves us all in shock and we think, or rather we don't, that a crazy blindsiding presence  can hold us hostage.  Then logical replacement seems to be grief.  These are the choices? I don't like 'em.

Your family is incredibly strong, Louise.  You should know, and I suspect you do, that through the tears and sadness, there was laughter on your behalf.  We remembered so much good.  And Johnny found some deep rooted strength speaking about you last Monday with the love and humor and Godliness only the brood of Wahls are capable of.  Imagine that.  He took that church so engulfed with sadness and spread your smile in just a few simple words. Gosh we needed that.  He's a great man, that Johnny.  I see why you married him.  I see why he married you.

Thank you for saving Sam's notes in the cookie jar. What a comfort.  She will always have that tiny gesture that you likely didn't realize would have such a profound impact.

So today, I wonder.  How will God shine in our hearts so that we can be at peace again? How might it replace the impending war inside us so that we can live on in your memory the way you would want?

We have photos. We have memories. And we have your hundreds of phone calls, vacations to Tahoe, rosaries (I'm sure you knew I didn't really know how to say them, but I plowed through the prayers because I knew it was right.) We have our delicious meals, mints on the pillows in the spare bedrooms, Christmas ornaments that we can unwrap each year, recipes in your handwriting, long rides in the car, conversations, your story-telling, your keepsakes, Mitzi's kisses embedded in our cheeks, and of course, Yatzee!

We have time, Louise. And we have faith. 

We love you, and we miss you.