She wrote back.

Her oldest son is named Matthew.  That makes me really happy.  And her younger son looks just the tiniest bit like his uncle.

I think maybe we will meet up soon.

Her dad wants to talk to me.  That makes me a little nervous.

I have a lot to think about, but mostly it is all good.

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It is an hour after I wrote the first part of this post.  I came back downstairs because I didn’t want to wake Mr. A with my stifled crying.  This is the first time I have done the ugly cry in a long, long time.

All these years, I have kept my memories of Matt, his suicide and the misery of grieving alone wrapped up tight in a box and shoved way down into the far reaches of my consciousness.   I still thought of Matt, but my brain mercifully glossed over the most painful parts.

Tonight, it feels a little like that box cracked open and all the memories – good and bad- are flooding back out.

I’ve missed him all these years, so it a way, I am thankful to have these memories in all their technicolor glory again.

The downside, obviously, is that this is more than a little overwhelming.

I have been thinking a lot about Matt this week.  It isn’t particularly surprising because April 23rd was the 14th anniversary of his suicide.  The weather and the smell of April always reminds me of those days just after he died.

I also went to a very emotional, well-attended funeral for my uncle last week.  I was moved by the outpouring of support for his  family and the opportunity to tell stories about the person who died.  It was really a celebration of his life.

I didn’t have that when Matt died.  I just had me –alone in the muddy woods where he shot himself the day before – trying to make sense of it all.   In the weeks and months that followed, the people who knew him bent over backwards to avoid mentioning Matt and his death in my presence.  They were probably trying to be kind, but it felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter and that Matt had just disappeared and no one even noticed.   Then, I had a long lonely year where I hardly talked to anyone at all.  I was consumed by the black hole of my grief, until I slowly started building a new life after.

The day after Matt died was the last time I spoke to his sister, who was also a good friend of mine.  I located her with google four years ago, but I never wrote to her.  I didn’t know what to say.   I still regret never calling her, never seeing her, never talking to her again.   I can look back at me as a 19 year old and cut myself some slack, because I was a walking trainwreck then.   But I still have regrets.

Today, just a little over 14 years later, his sister sent me a very brief message on facebook.  I am stunned.  Speechless.  A little bit panicked.

Should I apologize?  Tell her I still remember him?  Greet her like I would any other old friend?

I don’t know where to begin.