Memorial Letter

 The Letter I Read at Enzo's Memorial

When you lose a loved one, every always says “so in so was different. So in so was unique and special.” And they are right, but when I say that about Enzo- there’s something deeper behind that. There’s something beyond just saying he is different and unique. Enzo operated on a different frequency than everyone else. He experienced earth, relationships, love and all of life in another dimension. Each of us are limited by our conscience and Enzo strived to go beyond his.

Enzo felt restrained and held back by his own body. He wanted to taste life outside of what his mental capacity would allow, and he expressed his feelings and thoughts on that often. We discussed parallel universes and timelines outside what we are experiencing right now. These discussions were foreign to me. I had never thought about life other than what it is. Just life. At first, I listen to him in silence but as these conversations happened more and more, and I started listening to the YouTube stuff he sent me, I developed my own thoughts on the matter and our talks became lively. His eyes lit up at my perspective and he would laugh that giggly, all-consuming laugh as I would offer the feminine or softer side of what he thought.
“I never thought of it like that,” he said to me so often. Or “I love that perspective.”
It’s these conversations that I hold close now.

Enzo came into our family in a nontraditional way. Most of you know the story. For years, I would go into great detail about how he came to be a member of our family, explaining and always trying to honor his biological family by letting people know “he’s not mine, but he’s mine.”
He asked me one time “why do you want to put labels on everything? There’s no need to explain our connection to anyone.” So, I no longer label what Enzo and I had. All that matters is that I love him. He loves me.

I wrote a letter to Enzo. I would like to read it to you now.

Grief is just love with no place to go. I have so much grief. I have so much love. And you are the one person I need to talk to about losing you. I told you one time in our may discussions about death and the afterlife that if anything happened to you, I would write because I’m a writer. So, I’m here, 25 hours and 22 minutes after you left this life, writing to you. There’s a heater going. The lights on it change color, and of course I chose purple. This time though, writing is difficult and labored.

One of the last times I spoke to you on the phone, you of course, teased me about actually answering the phone. That wasn’t my fault, you had the worst timing when you called.
I was driving to Amarillo and you brought up, not for the first time, the topic of death. While it sounds strange to others that might not have known you well, talking about death was something you always needed. You wanted to know my thoughts and share yours. So we spoke about it again. I told you if anything happened to you, I would need something; I would need closure. I would need to know. You told me “There would be clues.” We laughed about how I hate puzzles and I told you “Figuring all that out would make me so mad.”
“What would you remember most about me?” you asked.
You had to know. Easy. The impressions you did. All the times that your joyous laughter echoed off every wall in our home. The way you and Brad could go on for hours laughing and joking and both of you with spot on impressions. Your Borat impression stuck out the most and I told you that.
So tonight, I opened my TikTok account. The place we shared inside jokes. Without you living close, Tiktok was the platform where we continued to laugh.
There it was, the last Tiktok you sent to me. Just one hour before you left us. It was a TikTok of a guy doing a Borat impression.
You left no note for me to hold, to read- because that’s not you. But you left me that TikTok. You told me when you hit the send button “Remember this way, Mom.”
I do have one note you wrote for me, in that chicken scratching handwriting where your Js dip down so much lower than they should. Mother’s Day 2015, back when you still had to call me Mrs. Davis. We were leaving Anderson Home, the brick and mortar where our connection began. We were going to a different home to be houseparents to a different group of young men. You were mad, but that note you taped to my apartment door has your heart in it, the gratefulness and love you have for Brad and I. That note has been framed in my office for years and serves as a reminder of our bond because you so clearly spelled it out in that letter. You never knew this, but I look at that note several times a week. It was written on blue paper that’s faded to a soft purple. Just like the light from the heater I’m using as I write this. All these small things make me feel close to you.

The clues are there. I found them. That conversation on the phone with you- you said so much that makes sense now but confused me then.
But I’m still not ok. You told me death can’t change our connection, but I think you were wrong. You didn’t like being wrong. And I know if you could manage to argue with me right now across the barrier between us, you would. If you could transcend time to correct me, you would. You assured me time after time that I had the right words for you. What you needed to hear about topics from love and dating, to how to navigate life. “I didn’t think about it like that,” you said so often. You often had the right words for me, too and I could use the right words now.

I know you needed peace. I know you needed to finally stop struggling.

I know you found peace. And I know the struggle will never end for me.

When you left, you took all my peace with you and left me with disquieting thoughts that I can never get away from. I know you didn’t think about it that way. And because no one could ever stay mad at you, ever, I know my anger will move on. It will morph. It will transition into loss and grief, but it will never leave. I will carry that night, Feb 28, 2022, with me for the rest of my life. I will also never stop looking for you. In every sunset, in every snowflake, in every bright flower and every shiver that runs down my spine and so many other countless things I can’t think of right now. They will all be you. I can’t say goodbye. So I simply won’t.

If we want to avoid the pain of parting, we will never experience the joy of love. Without all the love you so freely gave, I would not be experiencing this pain. So I have to thank you. Thank you for being my son. My best friend. Thank you for your love, Enzo.
Grief is just love with no place to go.