Another Letter I'll Never Send

This is another letter I'll never send. It's not that I don't want to send this one, it's just that it is impossible for it to be delivered.

Dear George,

On Thursday it will be two years. Three years ago I laid my bow on the strings and my fingers against the neck and my violin sang into the ceiling. Four years ago I smiled at you when I walked into the bandroom, and we told jokes and laughed and you made silly faces at people who weren't paying attention. Five years ago we were getting ready to compete in Toronto, and I had already learned a great deal from you in less than a year.

I remember the first time I met you, vividly. It was at summer music the summer between middle school and high school. I rode my bike to the middle school, to surround myself with the music program that I had dedicated myself to for four years. You were sitting there while the first violins practiced, holding your baby girl in your lap. You made me laugh so hard and I didn't even know you, but I knew we would be fast friends.

On the first day of high school I was terrified, but orchestra was an immediate home for me. Kate and I plopped ourselves down in the most comfortable chair in the bandroom and listened to you talk about the rigors of orchestra, knowing you were probably the least serious person we'd ever met. We took playing tests as freshman and sophomores, to determine our seating assignments. Kate and I were last stand first violins, a definite honor for freshman. I remember our playing exam sophomore year. When we finished you sat there with paper in front of you, pen in hand, looking at us. All you said was "And you're only sophomores." I could have cried with how good you made me feel about my abilities. I felt like I could do anything, play anything, be anything, because of you.

I went to Ireland over April vacation junior year, when the music department went on the annual music trip. That year you went to Boston, and orchestra placed second in the competition. We placed second my freshman year, and first my sophomore year. You were always so proud of us, and you always told us to ignore what the judges said, that we sounded great no matter what. And we did, we sounded like a team. If I could go back and change anything, I would have been there for the trip to Boston, so I could have spent a little more time with you. So I could have been there with my orchestra, with my team. I'm sorry, George.

You looked terrible on the night of the spring concert junior year. You had recently been told you would be taking over heading the band in addition to the orchestra. Your responsibilities were mounting and the music department budget was shrinking.

After the concert you went to the doctor, with fatigue. Nothing scary, right?

The doctor told you that you were sick. Very sick. You had leukemia.

They told us you had leukemia. I never panicked. Everyone was all over the place, terrified that you were going to die, trying to be hopeful that you would make a swift recovery. Everyone prayed. The "paper cranes" phenonmenon swept the school, and everyone wishes and hoped that you would be all right. Everyone loved you, George. You never made an enemy of the students, and you made dozens of great friends of the faculty.

You left the school to get treatment, and a less capable person filled in for you while you were gone. No one liked him, no one trusted him. He wasn't you.

The winter concert went smoothly, we sounded great, and we all played for you. We wore our blue and gold "Jammin' for George" wristbands, and all of our parents clapped and cheered for you when you sat in the front row. We played a benefit concert for your family and your expenses a few weeks later. Your eyes were deep and sunken, your formerly bald and shiny head was even balder. Your skin lacked its natural healthy glow. You were so skinny. You stood to conduct us for one song at the winter concert, but that was all you could handle. We cried so hard during that song. I turned to one of my friends, tears streaming down my face, and asked her if this was the last time we would be conducted by you. She told me not to say that, that it would be okay.

They told us you weren't coming back to teach us. They told us you were dying. They had ever single counselor in the band room, every single available staff member on hand. Tears streamed down my hot cheeks as I heard the words traveling out of their mouths and into my ears. You were dying. We finally had confirmation of our worst fears. You were dying.

I went into the practice room area and fell against a wall. Kate caught me and held me while I wept bitterly. It was the first time I ever really cried. I never cried when my father died, never really cried anyway. I feel, in a lot of ways, like your death was a continuation of my father's death. Like cancer was killing all of the important men in my life. It was a great release of emotion, of all the pent of rage and sadness from my father's death and all the feelings I had over you, George.

On February 5, 2007 I was sitting in second period cafe study, my books piled in front of me on a cafeteria table just high enough that I could rest my tired head. The principal's voice mumbled over the intercom that, after a long and hard fought battle against leukemia, you died. I felt like the battle that we had all been fighting was lost, like what was the use of any of it? It was the first time in my life that I realised that love isn't enough. Love isn't enough to keep someone in your life, it's not enough to keep friends from fighting, lovers from leaving, fathers and mothers and friends and teachers from dying. Everything I thought I knew was gone.

And so you died. I left cafe study and wandered down the long hallways to the music wing. I found Kate in the hallway, dropped my books and grabbed her in my arms. The teachers quickly ushered us to the music wing where we hugged and cried. I couldn't even stand to see how devastated we all were. I went home and lay in my bed for hours, just crying and wondering.

The violin felt different in my hand after that. The strings didn't have to same pang as before. My heart was completely broken. Love wasn't enough to keep you alive, George. It just wasn't enough.

And so you've been dead for two years now, and I miss you as much as I did a year ago, and two years ago, and as much as I will miss you three, ten, twenty years from now. The pain never goes away, it sometimes changes and sometimes it gets easier to get through the day without crying, but it never goes away. Sometimes I remember your smile, your laugh (you had such an amazing laugh!), your bald head, the love I know you felt for your students and music, and I cry. I'm not crying for me George, and maybe I'm not even crying because I'm sad. I cry because I knew you, and you touched my life. I've known many angels in my short experience here on Earth, and you George were certainly one of them. I cry because I'm so grateful, so very thankful that I knew you and that my life will never be the same.

If you see my daddy, play him a song for me. But NOT Duffy's Cut :) Play something happy and full of life. When I play my violin, run my fingers over the strings and grip the bow loosely, I see you on the pages in front of my eyes. I see my father, who never got to hear me play. I'm playing for you, George, and my daddy, and me. Put in a good word for me.

God, I miss you so much.