Sincerely, Lia

Grampa was the one who taught me how to ride a bike. I was seven and had refused all of Dad’s prior teaching attempts out of fear of knocking my head on the ground and slowly bleeding to death. Grampa bought me a purple helmet and said it was okay to be afraid of falling, but if I avoided everything that could hurt me, I’d never learn to fly.

I was 10 when he died. Before then, it never occurred to me that I would have to live most of my life without him. He took me to every soccer practice, whistled at my horrible choir recitals, and painted my face for Halloween. Grampa was always there. How could there be a time when he wasn’t?

It was sunny during his funeral. Everyone said it was a sign that he was in a better place, but all I could think of was how he would have snuck away with me to play catch. Grampa always said sunny days were the best to play catch because you could get used to being blinded by the sun.

At first, Dad would visit the cemetery twice a month, but I refused to go every time. Mom and Dad knew better than to push the subject.

Every day, I walked past the cemetery to and from school. I would always speed walk past, keeping my eyes frozen forward. I don’t know what I expected to see if I stopped for even one moment. Maybe Grampa’s ghost, eyes filled with disappointment at my lack of visits. Or maybe, nothing at all. I couldn’t tell which I thought was worse.

It was Grampa’s birthday, nearly two years later, when I finally stopped and looked at the cemetery gate. I felt a pit in my stomach thinking of him alone. My legs moved me forward before I could stop them, and I got just past the gate when I lost my nerve. 

I stood in that spot for a while, observing the oak tree that towered in the middle of the graveyard, providing shade to the few lucky dead people. If I were them, I think I would miss the sun. 

Turning to leave, I stopped once I saw the grave directly to my left.

Sandra Wallace. 1930 - 1944. Beloved sister and daughter.

For a moment, I was stunned at how young the girl had been when she died. There was probably no one alive that remembered her. 

I dropped my backpack on the ground and rummaged for a pencil and some paper. Putting a slightly crumpled sheet over the carved words, I rapidly rubbed the pencil until the letters began to appear. ‘There,” I thought to myself. “At least one person will remember her.”

When I got home, I placed the rubbing on the center of my desk where it couldn’t fall to the ground. I wanted to tell Grampa about Sandra, the teenager who missed so much. He would have had some perfectly comforting response like he did when my hamster ran away.

After Grampa had died, Mom and Dad took me to a therapist. She recommended writing letters to Grampa about what I wanted to tell him. I had called her stupid in my head. The next time I visited her, I told her that I had written him a bunch of letters, but I couldn’t share them with anyone because they were too personal. They believed me, and I never wrote the letters.

I still couldn’t bring myself to write to Grampa. The piece of lined paper and stubby pencil I had placed in front of me looked back mockingly. I grabbed the pencil and began to write.

Dear Sandra,

You don’t know me, but my name is Lia. You are buried in the same cemetery as my grandfather. I saw your grave when I visited him and was sad when I saw how young you were when you died.

What was your favorite thing to do when you were alive? I like to bike around my neighborhood and look for animals, especially turtles, near their marshes. Did you have any siblings? I have a younger brother Ricky. He’s only 6. I don’t think he remembers our Grampa. Grampa used to put Ricky on his shoulders and make him fly around like a superhero. They would chase me while I would pretend to be the evil villain destroying the city.

Do you miss your family and friends? I’m sure they missed you after you had to leave. If you see my Grampa wherever you are, can you tell him I miss him? Thanks.

Sincerely,

Lia Mason Harrell

I put my pencil down, feeling embarrassed. What was I doing? Sandra was dead; she was never going to read this. That therapist should lose her job.

I shoved the letter into my desk drawer but then decided better. If Mom decided to snoop through my room to ensure I wasn’t doing drugs, I wasn’t sure how I would explain this.

Dad had given me a lighter one night that he had brought home from work. I grabbed it from the box I kept under my bed and lit the bottom corner of the letter. I watched the flames rise for a moment before thinking of the fire alarm on the ceiling and shuffling over to the window. The flames came dangerously close to my fingers until I dropped the paper outside. It finished burning to ash before ever reaching the ground.

The following day at school, I tried not to think about Sandra. Every time I thought about Sandra, Grampa’s face would flash in my mind. I felt like a coward for not even being able to write him a few words. 

When I got to my room, a neatly folded paper was on my desk as if it had been waiting for me. I opened it and read as my eyes adjusted to the scrawling cursive.

Dear Lia,

Thank you for writing to me. I was rather sad to die, but I had a happy life before I got the influenza. My favorite thing to do was pick wildflowers with my younger sister Anne. I miss her very much.

I am sorry to say that I can’t speak with your grandfather, but I’m sure he knows how much you love him. He sounded like an amusing man.

Your Friend,

Sandy

I stood frozen in place. This was impossible. Mom and Dad left for work at the same time I left for school, and there had been nothing on my desk in the morning. Ricky still sometimes wrote his “R’s” backwards and could never manage that cursive.

Somehow, Sandra had written me back.

Shaking with excitement, or maybe it was fear, I sat down to start another letter. I asked Sandra about her sister Anne, their favorite flowers, and the town she came from. Immediately after signing my name, I folded the paper and pushed my chair back. Drumming my fingers against the smooth wood of the desk, I sat there for a few moments, debating my next move.

For good measure, I dug the lighter out from under my bed and ran to the window, thrusting the burning letter out into the cold air. After closing the window, I paced around my room, half expecting Sandra’s response to appear instantly.

My desk was still empty after dinner. I stayed up for hours, eyes battling the fatigue until I eventually fell asleep. The following morning, I shot out of bed, but there was no letter to be found. The morning after that, still nothing. A week passed before I finally accepted that Sandra was not going to write back. 

A few days later, I stood over Sandra’s grave again. “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk longer, Sandy, but it was very nice to meet you. And you were right. My Grampa was a funny man. I think he would have liked you.”

I turned to gaze at the giant oak tree in the distance. Grampa was buried on the far side of it. Seized with a sudden courage, I began walking towards the tree but stopped after a few steps. The tears started to fall as soon as I sat down on the ground and buried my face in my knees. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

After catching my breath and wiping my face with my sleeve, I stood and brushed the dirt off my jeans. “Sorry for sitting on your grave,” I apologized. Readjusting the flower bouquet I had knocked over, I read the name on the stone.

Ramesh D’Souza. 1962 - 2008. Asleep in peace.

I chewed the inside of my lip. Was it possible? Taking a piece of paper and a pencil from my backpack, I made a quick rubbing of Ramesh D’Souza’s gravestone.

I ran home, clutching the paper in my hand, mind racing with excitement. By the time I sat down at my desk, the words were already rushing out.

Dear Ramesh D’Souza,

I’m sorry to disturb you if you really are asleep in peace. I recently wrote a letter to one of your fellow graveyard residents and was shocked when she wrote back. I decided to try and see if I could get a letter to you, too.

What do you miss most about being alive? No offense, but being dead does seem a little boring. Are there any lakes to swim in? Does Heaven have rollercoasters?

I saw some roses leaning against your gravestone. You must have someone that loves you very much. But would you be hurt if one of your loved ones didn’t visit your grave? If they couldn’t bring themselves to talk about you, would you think they didn’t love you? Even if you knew, before, that they did love you?

Sincerely,

Lia Mason Harrell

I burned the letter outside of my window again. I had to light it a few times because the rain kept dousing the flame. The next morning, a crisp envelope gleamed in the sunlight at the foot of my bed.

Dear Lia,

I welcome your letter and company. I’m afraid I can’t comment too much on what life is like after death. It has to remain a surprise!

As for your other questions, everyone grieves differently. Talking to my stone brings comfort to some people, like my wife, who brought those roses. My daughter prefers to speak to me when she goes on hikes that we used to do together. But I'd be more worried than hurt if she couldn’t talk to me. I’d want her to remember me with happiness, not sadness, and I would hope that that would one day be true.

Sincerely,

Ramesh

Clutching the letter to my chest, I sat back down on my bed and exhaled. Maybe Ramesh was on to something, and there were other ways I could talk to Grampa. Different ways I could keep his memory alive.

I paperclipped the new letter to the rubbing I had made of Ramesh’s grave and tucked it in a folder behind Sandra’s note and rubbing.

And that’s how it began.

Every week.

Dear Missy O’Brien,

Walk through the graveyard.

Dear Zhi Wen,

Make a rubbing of a gravestone.

Dear Samuel Lakeland,

Write letter.

Dear Maria Velez,

Burn it.

Dear Jessica Norman,

Read letter.

Dear Ola Oluwafemi,

Miss Grampa.

With each letter, I worked my way through the graveyard. It became easier and easier to share my favorite memories of Grampa with my correspondents. In return, they told me of their lives and the loved ones they missed. As the years passed, I eventually reached the graves closest to where Grampa lay. 

Dear Christopher Greene,

I hope you’re enjoying your eternal slumber. I’m writing because I like your last name. My Grampa’s favorite color was green. He told me it was the color of the dress my Grandma wore on the day they met. He also must have really liked the name Christopher because that’s what he named my Dad. I think he would’ve been really excited to meet you just because of your name. 

Did you have kids? Were you worried that they’d miss you when you passed away? I wish my Grampa had been more concerned about that. Maybe then he would have done something to make it easier to miss him.

Sincerely,

Lia Mason Harrell

Christopher’s letter arrived the following day in a crumpled, off-white envelope. I opened it carefully, not wanting to risk adding a ripped letter to my collection. 

Dear Lia Mason,

I’m glad to hear your Grampa would have liked my name. I had to put up with many jokes because my favorite color was, unfortunately, red.

I had two beautiful sons with my wonderful wife, Catherine. I suppose I didn’t worry that they would miss me after I died. I was more concerned that they would be happy and successful and that their lives would be okay without me helping them. But that is what a parent always worries about, letting their children fly free.

I do not think your Grampa could have done anything to make you miss him less unless he tried to make you love him less. In the end, I don’t think either of you would have agreed that was the better outcome. I understand you must be angry at him, Lia, for leaving you, but none of us have any control over when we go. The best we can do is love the people who matter most to us and hope that’s enough.

Regards,

Christopher G.

I read the letter several times. I wasn’t angry at Grampa, was I? I was the coward who couldn’t even visit his grave or write him a letter. I was mad at myself.

And maybe I was a little mad at him too. 

But if not having to miss Grampa meant one less impromptu ice cream run, or one less pillow fort, Christopher was right. That wouldn’t be better. Not really.

The day before I left for college, I stood in front of Grampa’s grave.

Mason Harrell. 1934-2016. Great love lives on.

I touched a finger to his name, recalling the feeling of running my fingers through his bushy mustache. But the stone was just cold and damp.

I took my time making the rubbing, dragging the pencil back and forth, ensuring each letter was as evident as possible.

Once I had finished, I touched the stone again. “I miss you, Grampa,” I whispered. My throat ached as I held back tears. I sat there in silence for a few minutes, knowing that there was nothing more I needed to say.

Sitting at the desk in my room, I began writing my last letter.

Dear Grampa,

I’m sorry it’s been a while since we’ve spoken. I’ve spent a lot of time talking with your…“neighbors.” You would’ve been the only person who believed me if I told you I had found a way to talk to dead people. I think I’ve made you a lot of new friends. 

I taught Ricky how to ride his bike a couple of years ago. I never realized how scary it can be for the person doing the teaching, watching him fall off like that. But I had bought him a new helmet and told him it was magic, so he got right back on. Mom and Dad were so emotional, telling me how proud they were of me. I hope you would have been proud of me too. 

I know you had to go, and I’m sorry for being mad at you for so long. It was time for you to earn your wings. I think I’m finally learning how to fly too.

Thank you for everything. 

With Love,

Lia

The next morning, I delayed leaving the house as long as possible, staring at my desk and waiting for a letter to appear. Eventually, Mom dragged me from the house, yelling something about traffic.

After we moved all of my stuff into my tiny dorm room, we stood by the car awkwardly, not wanting to be the first to say goodbye. We were watching the other students lug their bags through the doors when Dad wrapped his arms around me in a hug.

“Don’t be afraid to fall, Lia. We’re always here for you,” he whispered, kissing my head.

As they drove away, Ricky and Mom waved from the car until they disappeared around the corner.

I called home every day, asking whichever poor soul picked up the phone if they could search my room for a letter. They never found anything. 

When I returned to my dorm room after class one day, my roommate was on her way out. She smiled at me as she picked up her bag before her eyebrows shot up, and she moved towards her desk.

“Oh! By the way, I found this lodged in between our dressers. I think it might be yours.”

Gently taking the green envelope from her outstretched hand, I thanked her. 

I sat down at my desk with a small smile, opened the envelope, and began to read.