Letter 8
November 7, 2014
Dear Jesse,
When I returned back to New Orleans after your funeral, those next couple of months I worked, worked and worked. All of my emotion was being put into my business. It was really hard for me to give my son what he needed. Jeremy was on the outside of my pain and more nights then not I was in my office. I can remember an overwhelming sense of gratefulness that I had this business at this point in my life. I really believe my body had to physically create, create, create, in order to assist in my process of grieving losing you. I also believe I needed to put my pain into something in order for the pain of losing you not to completely obliterate my being.
Just three months after you died I woke up one morning in May to horrific news. I checked my company’s Instagram account only to find it flooded with the face of a young boy who had suddenly died that weekend. He was hit by a truck in front of his family while retrieving a frisbee from the road.
He was 3.5 years old.
I didn’t know the child or his mother other then that we had a few mutual IG connections and followed each other on there.
My stomach began twisting and I almost threw up.
I felt everything coming back up to the surface. The pain of losing you, the reality of you being dead, and with that I couldn’t imagine this mother was going through that– but about her child.
Her only child.
Within 24 hours of your death, friends, family and strangers donated over $10k to our family to help give you a proper goodbye. I’ll never forget that as long as I live. Grateful doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about every person who helped Aimee, Dad and I in our darkest moment of losing you.
I had to do the same thing in return for the mother and father of that little boy. I quickly created a shirt in memory of him using a photograph and raised funds for those next 24 hours. It was amazing to see people pull together to help in any way they could.
Weeks went by and the shirts for the little boy arrived as did our father. Jeremy flew him down to give him a change of scenery for a little bit and to have him spend time with Dylan. Dad asked about the piles and piles and piles of shirts in the downstairs of our home. I explained to him the story of the little boy and he looked at me and said,
“Jen, I’d like to help you.”
Dad helped me for days to get the shirts ready for the shipping process. Simultaneously he and I would work next to each other and pack the shirts without speaking. In the silence I couldn’t help but watch our father. It was like with every shirt he was packaging he felt a purpose. I think he really needed to feel that in the midst of just losing you.
Although I didn’t express it to dad, I was so fucking proud of him. He was showing me to not give up, to always move forward, and to be love no matter what.
Be love no matter what.
