Frayed Handwritten Letters by Jill Diane Turcotte

February Prompt: Frayed Handwritten Letters

When the doorbell rings unexpectedly, most assume it’s the Girl Guides selling cookies or sports groups asking for empty bottles. I never imagined it would be two police officers letting me know they had identified a body found that morning. That body was my son. He died from a fentanyl overdose. “That can’t be true,” I said. “He’s upstairs sleeping, and he doesn’t do drugs.” My heart shattered when I discovered it was true.

My life changed that day. For weeks, I didn’t get out of bed. It had always been him and me, and now he was gone. “Why?” I repeatedly called out. On the advice of 

a coworker, I began grief counselling sessions. I initially signed up for six months.

On the first anniversary of his passing, I took a small shoebox from my closet into Matthew’s room. I sat on the floor with it in front of me, sometimes cradling it in my hands. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Grief is a peculiar thing.

Initially, the box held Matt’s first pair of Nike Kids size 10C running shoes. He was only four years old when I bought them. Now, this box has transformed into a treasure chest filled with some of his favourite stickers, a few small drawings he created, cherished postcards he sent to me, crumpled Mother’s Day cards, birthday cards, and frayed handwritten letters he wrote to me from Cub Camp, school trips, and vacations with his grandparents.
Despite attending regular grief counselling sessions, I experienced many setbacks in my grief recovery. Driving down certain streets triggers memories. Random smells, songs on the radio, and movie catchphrases all brought me to tears.

When I was reprimanded at work for misusing my sick time, I knew things needed to change. When watching a news report that stated fentanyl deaths were on the rise, I realized I could help others who were trapped in a cycle of grief, much like I was. I organized my own grief counselling sessions specifically for families who had lost loved ones to fentanyl overdose. It was tremendously successful. Many families have told me they couldn’t have navigated the grieving process without the support of my specialized sessions.

​It has now been ten years since that day that changed my life. Every year on this date, I take that shoebox into Matt’s room to open it, but I can’t. This year is the year. I lifted the lid and ran my fingers over the letters. My eyes closed, and I could feel him sitting next to me. We read the letters together, laughed at the drawings, and expressed our delight at the stickers. During this lovely trip down memory lane, I realized that recovering from grief doesn’t mean you have to forget. Matt was a living, breathing person who walked this earth beside me. Now, I hold him in my heart and mind, and we get through each day together.

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Jill Diane Turcotte is a retired healthcare worker pursuing her dream of writing fiction. Last year, she wrote two plays, both of which were produced, and one won first place in a playwriting contest. She also enjoys spending time with family, hiking, and visiting the dog park with her husband and their two labs, Ladybug and Cricket.