Gilbert’s dying. It became the whole thing. You, Bruce and Fiona, my brother, our friends, my work, the house, our life, all of that was sitting on the sidelines, but I was in the ring wrestling, bloody, half-dead, with Gill’s death. Parenting the other two, trying to help them with their own grief, was like acting. I could say what needed to be said, but I was only thinking of myself in the ring with Gill’s death. I have asked Bruce and Fiona about that period of time. I was surprised to learn they’re both in therapy. I think neither of us was able to shepherd them in those first crucial months, submerged, completely, in the swamp water of despair. We were needing the same thing, you and I, a temple in which to tuck away and disappear from the earth, to mourn at the altar of our desolation, but we had the children, so we could not. Could we have held onto each other? I’ve wondered. We did the best we could and it was not enough. The four of us came away injured, but is there any other way for a person to come through? Oh, Gilbert. I do hope there is an afterlife as I have always believed, a heaven. I hope I will see him and know him there. I believe I’ve been looking forward to death on one hand.

Here I am finally making my way, though slowly. It was this reason I had to leave. I was not up to the task of grieving Gilbert’s death and still being a decent father or a decent husband. I know that by the time we separated it was what we both wanted. Things had become so wretched, but this was my failure. I regret it even now. It’s one of the things I regret. I am grateful to have fallen in love with Lina, something that was only possible because Lina was so distant from all that I’d left when I left you. But what I want to say to you is this: I cannot take back things I said to you in those early dark days. Oh, that we could have the wisdom of age earlier! What happened to Gill could have happened to any child. I blamed you, but you were not at fault. Terrible accidents happen all the time to many, many people. The grief that must fill the world is incomprehensible. Our small dose felt as large as the sun, didn’t it? And it persists. I’ll never forget the day he died, the way you knelt on the floor and wept, and I left you there, unable to touch you, blaming you when there was nothing to blame. Sybil, forgive me!

Now that I’m dying it seems much simpler than it ever did before. Living, I mean. There is no parallel universe. There is no “what could have been if only.” In some ways this has brought me a great deal of peace. In other ways it is bitter. How cruel life is only this long. Now that I see clearly, I’d like more time. It’s not to be. I can’t exactly explain it, but I feel the dying. Do you remember that remarkable book about cancer? The Emperor of All Maladies. The emperor, indeed. Mukherjee. Remarkable. I think of it often. It’s taken me an entire afternoon with a nap after the third paragraph to finish this letter.

I’m ready to go, but I don’t think Fiona is OK. Please make sure she is OK. Dear Sybil, I do love you. The children are fortunate it’s not you they’re losing. You’ve been a wonderful mother to them.