Dear Jeff,

Dear Jeff,

Every year, I write you a letter around the time of your death. I don’t know why, but I need to get these thoughts and my love for you off my chest…I want people to know how special you were, how sad the world is without you.

This past year, your death hits me particularly hard. So much has changed in my life, and as I’ve noted previously, every time I have a hard spot to pass through, I have a dream with you in it. You as a comforter, a reminder for me to keep going even though I cannot see a point or purpose to my own life. So thank you, Jeff, for continuing to be my friend and stand by my side when things get tough. I shouldn’t be surprised that a friend as true as you would remain steadfast, even in death.

As I age and get older, you forever remain 22. I cannot fully enjoy the Fourth of July because the sound of the fireworks makes me think of the sound of gunfire—like the gunfire that took you.

It bothers me that I don’t know your exact date of death. It’s not like it matters; you’re gone. But I wish I knew, I wish I could determine the exact date. It’s hard, too, because the military lists your date of death in Iraqi time—I think?

Again, it’s not important.

But it is.

This Fourth of July, Jeff, I was at a party. There were a bunch of people your age—22—who were wasted. One particular idiot said, upon the lighting of firecrackers, “Dude, I’d be set if they ever set up a draft. I’m so used to this noise after tonight, being in Iraq would be a piece of cake.”

I started sobbing. I wanted to sock this kid. First of all, that’s a crappy, moronic, thoughtless thing to say. But my god, how it hurt! How it hurts my heart to think that I will never see you again. I can never talk to you, I can never debate with you again.

Tomorrow—on the 7th of July—my mom called me to tall me of your death. She didn’t want me to find out via a newspaper of TV.

It’s strange, too: I harbour absolutely no ill-will towards the person who took your life. I hurt for him, too, because what drives someone like him to aim a gun at a young man’s head as he’s taking a sip of his soda? Desperation. Fear. He believed he was doing what was right for his country, just as I’m sure you believed you were doing right for your country.

On Friday, Jeff, I was walking with M. You remember him—the three of us went to high school together. M and I happened to walk by the street that was renamed in your memory. We had been caught in a rainstorm, and I was soaked.

I did the only thing I could think to do on “your” street, Jeff: I danced. I twirled M around and danced, thinking of you, hoping you could see us and were dancing with us.

I miss you, Jeff.
I love you.
Thank you for being in my life during the hardest times—both in high school, and now in my dreams.

You are what Socrates and the ancient Greeks would call a [I]daemon[/I]. Whoever thought I would have a [I]daemon[/I] of my own.

…

You are so loved, Jeff,
Whitney