Dear one,
The usual phrases may wait outside
I have been trying to find the right thing to say. Several familiar phrases have offered their services. I have thanked them and sent them home. I do not have a sentence that makes this loss smaller, and I would rather admit that than hand you something polished which leaves you doing the work of appreciating my intentions.
What I do have is affection for you and a wish to keep making room. This invitation is one small way of offering that. You can tell me about the day, say someone's name, share a memory, or leave it unopened. You do not need to arrive with a clear feeling or an account of how you are doing that I can easily understand.
Memories are allowed to repeat themselves
If a memory comes while you are opening a cupboard, passing a place, or hearing a particular expression, you can tell me about it. It does not need to be an anniversary or a story with a beautiful ending. The ordinary details are welcome: the voice, the habit, the thing they always said at precisely the wrong moment.
And if you have told me before, you can tell me again. There is no editor here checking the archive for duplicate submissions. A remembered joke can be funny; a remembered irritation can remain irritating. You do not have to sand a person into a perfect figure before speaking about them. You choose the part you would like someone to hear.
You do not have to make your grief easier for me to hear.
No emotional hospitality required
You need not reassure me that you are managing. You also need not be solemn for the sake of an expectation. A laugh, an angry sentence, a quiet minute, or a conversation about something entirely unrelated can all belong to the day. I do not want you arranging your feelings into something more comfortable for a visitor.
If I offer a thought that does not help, you can tell me. There is no requirement to write a favourable review of my attempt at being supportive. I want to listen better, not collect evidence that I have found exactly the right words. I can be fond of you, a little awkward, and willing to learn what sort of company you actually want.
The ordinary subjects have permission to stay
You can talk about the shopping or the weather without making them carry a lesson. Sometimes the subject really is the rain. I promise only to make an effort not to turn it into a metaphor. If you would like distraction, that is a real kind of company; it does not require you to explain why you would rather discuss something else today.
If you want to talk about what is difficult, I would like to hear that too. I will not use your messages to decide whether you are moving in the proper direction. There is no timetable in this invitation, and no need to offer a hopeful ending. A casserole, if one enters the story, does not oblige you to provide its donor with an uplifting conclusion.
An opening you may use or leave
When you want to reply, you can choose video, turn the camera off for a voice note, or write a few words. Sixty seconds is just somewhere to begin, not a maximum or a measure of how much you should say. You can stop sooner, take longer, review the reply, or decide not to send it at all.
A reply you do send comes to me, the host of this invitation, rather than automatically going to a family group or circle of friends. I may see it later, so keep our usual way of contacting each other when you want a timely conversation. There is no daily expectation. Leave days between messages, leave the invitation quiet, or tell me you would prefer another way to keep in touch.
OUR LITTLE PROMISE
This has become quite a long letter about leaving you room. I recognize the small irony.
What I mean, underneath it all, is that I care about you. If a memory or a moment would like company, you can bring it here. If today wants quiet, there is room for that too.
With love, and without an answer you must reach