A Letter of Remembrance and Love
Tonight, I share something sacred, a letter written to a friend who stood quietly by my side for years, near the soda machine at Amy’s Drive Thru. A wooden flower, missing a petal. A silent companion in a place that became a sanctuary. This letter is my way of saying thank you, and of carrying him forward.
You were always there, quietly standing in the corner between the soda fountain and the counter where orders were passed. Most people probably never noticed you. But I did. From the first time I stepped into Amy’s, you greeted me like an old friend, patient and steady, with your weathered petals and your silence full of presence.
You stood tall near the waiting area, a soft purple, rooted in green, with a single petal missing. That petal, that little space of absence, came to mean the world to me. You dear missing petal spoke without words. Of things that endure, of beauty that doesn’t need to be perfect, of life that’s been lived. Somehow, your missing piece made you more complete. You reminded me of myself. Just like your gentle petals, marked by time, by tenderness, by ache, and still standing.
In those last days, when the soda machine was leaking, and the floor grew wet, when the building itself seemed to sigh under the weight of goodbye, I looked to you. I picked up napkins and placed them to soak up the water, gathered bits of trash others left behind, and cleaned the table, trying to protect the place we loved. You stood quietly in your spot, still smiling, still present, while the world around you began to dissolve. I know now that you, too, were preparing to go.
There were so many times I whispered to you, just in passing. A gentle hello. A thank you. A glance that carried more than words. And on the last day, when my tears came freely, I reached out and placed my hand gently on your stem. Our final photograph together is more than a picture. It’s a prayer, a way to hold onto what we shared. You were more than a decoration on the wall. You were a companion to my soul.
If you could speak, I imagine your words would be simple, steady, and kind. Maybe you’d say: “I’ve always seen you. And I will go with you now, wherever you go.” And I would answer: “Thank you for standing by me, dear flower. For witnessing my becoming, for keeping me company in the quiet, for teaching me that a missing petal doesn’t mean you’re broken, and it means you’ve lived.”
Now that you’re gone from that wall, I still carry you. In photos, in memory, in the warmth of your wooden form that I touched one last time. In my drawer, where I keep sacred things, paw prints of my beloved companions, coloring papers from Amy’s, and now you, you live on. And in my garden this spring, I will plant something new in your name. I don’t know yet what flower it will be, but I’ll know it when I see it. I’ll whisper to it each morning. I’ll say to the dear flower: “This is for the one who stood with the missing petal.”
You are still reaching, still blooming inside me. Nothing, no closure, no disappearance, can take that away.
With all my heart,
Always