Dylan Stafford

Dear Sister Lisa,

It’s the 4th of July, 2019, three years since you passed away. I promised to write you each 4th, to catch you up on my life and to tell you how your life still makes a difference for me. Here we go sister.

Top headline: Mom doesn’t cry so much anymore.

Your death was hardest on Mom. She still tears up. She still gets sad. But it is better.

Remember your beads?

Mom still has your bags of beads for making necklaces and bracelets. It took time before Mom could even look at your beading equipment without weeping, let alone work with it. Now, she is beading and beaming. It’s a miracle.

How is Koko Buddy doing, the new puppy we sent to you?

We didn’t want to send him to you. It was an accident. On Easter Sunday, Koko Buddy bolted out the front door. Before we could grab him, he had streaked into the street and was struck by a passing AAA truck.

All the neighborhood kids were playing in the yard. They heard the tires screeching and they all saw Koko get hit. Our neighbors’ kids had bad dreams that week. Jackson and Christian had bad dreams even longer.

I ran to the street. I lifted Koko as gently as I could. I talked to him and told him to hang on as our neighbors rushed us to the closest animal hospital. We had him in doctors’ care within 15 minutes of the accident. If there was a chance for saving him, that was it.

But it didn’t go that way. Two hours later, standing in the hallway, the doctor told me that Koko was dead. He asked me if I wanted to bring Koko to Marisa and the boys and I said yes.

The doctor wheeled Koko Buddy on a little cart into the family room. He was under a blanket, covered from the shoulders down. He looked like he was asleep.

The boys stroked Koko’s head, their faces sagging with shock. Marisa’s face was empty and sad.

We held hands around Koko. I prayed out loud for all of us. I prayed—not to ask that bad things don’t happen because that’s not how life works—but rather, I thanked God for giving us the strength to deal with tragedy when it does happen.

And that’s when I thought of you Lisa, adding to the prayer, “And Lisa, please welcome Koko to heaven.”

Lisa, thinking of you helped me take care of my family on Easter Sunday.

I know how much you loved dogs. You always had that high-pitched way to talk to dogs that instantly made them love you. The image of you squealing and greeting Koko in heaven comforted Jackson and Christian, and me.

You’re still part of my life Lisa.

About a month ago, I had a dream about you. In the dream, I was at dad’s ranch house, only the house was covered with green, Stephen King-like moss.

I was puttering in the dream kitchen when I heard you.

“Nunna!” you called out in your full, everything-is-right-in-the-world voice, the human version of your welcome-squeal for dogs.

“Nunna, there you are,” you said, sweeping in, not a care in the world, looking over my shoulder, into the mixing bowl.

“Lisa!” I said, flabbergasted, with a million thoughts overloading my brain. Is it all a mistake? Has there been a giant misunderstanding? Are you not really dead?

You looked at me peacefully, your face calm and your brown eyes sparkling. You reached out, your long delicate fingers taking my hands in yours. You took a breath, to start to explain the giant misunderstanding.

And then I woke up.

It was early, well before 5:00am, but I wasn’t going back to sleep.

Kind of like today when I woke up at 4:48am. Today I woke up to the neon thought I gave my word to write to Lisa on the 4th of July, and if I don’t write before everyone wakes up, I might not write at all.

We’re on family vacation in Colorado. With a cup of coffee, I’m on the porch watching the pre-dawn sky lightening. Humming birds are drinking from the feeder. The Rocky Mountains are standing steady in the background.

We still miss you Lisa. We all miss you. The first day of vacation here, brother Jon and I were talking about missing our sister. He told me about seeing something in a store, and having the thought—for one brief second—Oh, I can’t wait to tell Lisa about this. And for that blessed second you were alive and he could still talk to you and it was beautiful.

I told Jon about my dream of you at the ranch. And I told him the second half of that day’s story of you.

Later that same day, I was sitting in traffic talking to mom on the cell phone.

“And Mom, in the dream, it was like nothing was wrong. It was like it was all a big misunderstanding. I was so relieved. And Lisa was about to explain everything. And then I woke up,” I said.

All day long I had been remembering the dream. The dream was a visit from you. Telling Mom about the dream was keeping the visit alive a little longer, and that was good.

And then you visited me again, you rascal.

At a red light on Overland Avenue, I noticed the car in front of me. It was a grey Ford Escape, one shade darker, and newer, but your same model.

Ha!

You’re in heaven, petting Koko Buddy, listening to Mom and me talk about your dream visit. And as I looked from the Escape logo to the license plate, you sent one more zinger, your wonderful sense of humor.

The customized California license plate read “MY T GD.”

I laughed out loud and told Mom. “Mom, you’re not going to believe this,” I said. “I’m behind a grey Escape, like Lisa drove, and the license plate says Mighty God.”

Thank you for the visits this year Lisa.

We each still think about you.

Mom and Marisa are beading up a storm. They are making necklaces and bracelets. There is some weeping, but there is more art. It’s a miracle.

I still cry in church over you. Certain hymns. Being with family. Reflecting. If I’m crying, Christian will look up at me and say, “Don’t be sad Daddy.” Jackson will pat me on the shoulder.

I still say “Hi Aunt Lisa. Thank you soldiers.” as I pass the National Cemetery on the 405 on my commute to UCLA. I still look up at the sky and think of you in the clouds, the myriad of patterns like your many moods.

And mostly, I think of you in twelve-step meetings. You got me sober Lisa, 18 years ago now. You were the person with the patience to pierce my prickly pride and show me a better way to live. You spared me from ten to twenty years of the slow and predictable descent of alcoholism.

You gifted me a sober foundation. A house can’t stand without a foundation, and you took the time to give me a foundation for my life.

Upon that foundation, Marisa and I have built a marriage. Within that marriage, we have our two sons, Jackson and Christian, respectively, each a miracle: one, the miracle of overcoming supposed infertility; one, the miracle of the blessing of adoption.

Upon that sober foundation, I have built a career in education. I have a constancy of character that lets me work at a big place like UCLA. I get to see the blessings of supporting people growing and developing.

Upon that foundation, I have the ability to be there when my family needs me. Marisa looked for a year to find our Koko Buddy. He was our boys’ first pet.

Nobody warned me about parenting your children when they are distraught. Nobody told me how hard it is when you can’t make your kids’ pain go away. In the weeks after Koko Buddy’s death, the boys would melt when we talked about him. Being sober, I had the patience to keep nurturing them.

As you know Lisa, I turned 50 this year. Marisa jokes, “You’ve been getting ready to turn 50 for the last three years.”

So I’m 50 Lisa. And I’m peaceful.

I get to be married. I get to be a father. I get to have a career. My life has many blessings. And those blessings rest on a foundation of being sober, of asking God to guide my life one day at a time. That foundation is your ongoing gift to me.

Your body is gone. The closest we get to your actual presence are intense, brief lightning bolts, like seeing you in a dream visit, or thinking of you in a store.

Your body is gone, but your spirit is here. You pass gently through my life like clouds overhead. Your love of art lives on with mom and beading. I stand firmly on the foundation of your gift of sobriety.

I love you Lisa. Your family loves you. We all do. Daughter. Sister. Cousin. Aunty. Friend. Writer. Artist. Necklace-maker. You were many things to many people. Thank you for the years we had together. Thank you for leaving me with a way to live a good life. Have a happy 4th of July. Give Koko a hug as you watch the fireworks from heaven Lisa. We love you.