For Robin Williams, A Repost of Last Love Letter

Last Love Letter

My cousin was a year older.

He was the second grandchild.

He was the younger brother

I was the first granddaughter.

My cousin lived three hours away.

I saw him and his brother

only some weekends. Two or three a year.

He was a sweet, quiet baby.

When I was six, I wrote him love letters

on scrap paper.

When I was ten, he taught my brother

how to turn his eyelids inside out

that made me run screaming.

We played baseball with socks wrapped in electrical tape.

I privately competed against him.

He was a funny, reserved, young man.

He once wanted to be a store Santa

because young women liked to sit

in Santa's lap for a picture.

When I was twenty-six, he died.

and I forgot everything but the pain.

and a vigilante hummingbird.

I forgot his smile.

I forgot his laugh.

I forgot his wit.

I forgot his love for his nephew.

I forgot.

I would have traded anything to have

him back.

To hug him the last time I saw him.

To Tell Him I Loved Him.

And I cried

cried

cried

cried

cried

Tonight I found some pictures.

And I remembered:

How he was sweet

How he loved his nephew

How he was funny

His desire to be Santa

My notes

Baseball

The woods

Football

Hawaiian Punch

Hot Chocolate

Puddings

Hide and Seek

His eyelids

His smile

Him.

and i cried.

heidi

originally written:3/13/97