Dear Ellie Mae:
You spent half your life in my truck passenger seat. There wasn’t a trip that you didn’t sit beside me. That seat was yours.
And we used to play in the water together. Remember that? It was your favorite thing. I’ve never had a dog love water like you did.
After each swim, you’d jump in the passenger seat and get the truck upholstery wet. God. That’s a good memory.
The truth is, I can’t feel anything right now. I’m numb all over. And sick. My eyes are hot and swollen. I can’t breathe. It feels like the world has turned to ash, and the sky has become rock.
I’ve been crying. I even got down on the floor and moaned. And sobbed. And wailed. I made a fool of myself.
I’m writing you because I don't know what else to do, honey. I can’t talk to you anymore, and you were Daddy’s little listener.
I’m hoping for a miracle of Heaven. I’m hoping that somehow these words get to you. I
hope God sends them upon the wings of angels—I am begging him.
I just want you to know how much I love you. And even though we will not be together anymore, I am grateful.
I’m grateful we belonged to each other. I’m grateful it was me you loved. Grateful it was my truck seat you claimed.
I suppose you’ll have a new hip tonight. New ears. And a new set of young bones, too. And guess what? That means you’ll be able to wrestle again.
Isn’t that great? We used to wrestle. Remember how you loved to wrestle after supper?
We’d roll on carpet until you were exhausted. We sure knew how to play, didn’t we?
Ellie, honey. Now listen good. I don’t have long, and I may never…