Jonah

Dear Jonah,

In the summer of 1998 when you were all of eight years old, you spent a week at Cub Scout Day Camp on the other side of the county. After the first day, you were nearly thrown out of the program for grabbing a camper and talking back to several (!) adult counselors. This was not an unfamiliar sequence of events because you’d always had a pronounced sense of justice that would likely have served you well in adulthood but, as a child, simply made you look like a misbehaving brat.

A pretty cute Cub Scout!

That evening, you and I talked it through and came to an understanding about what society wants of us and, more importantly, what real injustice is all about. You returned to camp the next day and everyone enjoyed having you around the remainder of the week. You were, after all, a pretty fun kid.

I remember, a few years later (when you were maybe eleven or so) lying in bed with you discussing your unhappiness socially. I assured you that you were a very likeable kid — sweet, kind, FUNNY — and that the day you decided to let the world see THAT kid, that would be the day your social woes would come to an end.

At eight years old, you didn’t necessarily understand all the textures and dynamics of right and wrong. But you were learning. And I always loved that it mattered to you. I also loved that you were always watching and listening. Sometimes that caused you to punch another kid, but sometimes it helped you understand why you should think about refraining from punching another kid. As you grew into adulthood, I marveled at the lessons learned. You had become such a fine human being, and I couldn’t wait to see what your mark would be on the world.

That didn’t get to happen because at age 19 your life ended. But not the difference you were making. When our family created the foundation that bears your name, we did so to try and bring into the world a bit of what you might have brought to it yourself if you’d had the time to do so. Each gift came from another friend empowering us to do this for you. Their donations help us with “turning love into action.”

That same week back in 1998, you and I went to Rye Playland, an amusement park near where we live. You and I did not ride The Spider. There was no way you were going anywhere near that thing, mostly because you’d heard about my experience when I’d taken Katie earlier that same summer. But you did want me to go on it by myself so you could watch me throw up afterwards.

10 years old and so excited about entering the new millennium!

I didn’t oblige you. But hope has to begin somewhere, doesn’t it? And this is one of the great lessons you’re still teaching us.

Despite losing you, despite other disappointments and challenges that life throws our way, despite the coronavirus still ravaging the planet, I insist upon hopefulness, preferring to build something good rather than regret what’s been loss. And everyday, it is you — Jonah Maccabee Dreskin. You inspire a goodly part of the strength of that resolve. Yes, of course I wish you were here. But you’re not … and this is how I choose to awaken each morning. Will I be able to do so tomorrow? I don’t know. But today, yes and yes.

Happy new year, kid.

Love you forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

StoryCorps recently posted a piece about twin brothers who’d been extremely close their entire lives, sharing their childhoods, sharing their livelihoods, and even their employment at the World Trade Center. As I listened to one of them speak, I wondered if this had been recorded prior to 9/11 and that the brothers had perished there together. I soon understood that the recording was recent, and that he was recounting how it was that his brother was gone but he is still here.

I cried.

2600 innocent souls were stolen on that lovely fall morning in 2001, gone long before their time, families and friends having to learn to live life around a gaping hole still filled with love but empty of the person who should be there.

I appreciate crying. It helps me to feel more fully human. I was deeply saddened by the brothers’ story, but grateful to have heard it and been moved by it. The tears didn’t feel good, but they felt right.

Dear Jonah,

It’s twelve years now and you’re still not back. So I guess this is going to be a thing, huh?

So much changed for me the day you died. I never know where or when, but things can affect me quite differently from the way they used to. Invariably it’s because a moment brings sudden, unexpected connection to you. I’ve certainly learned to live my life, and I’m doing pretty well at it. But then, without any warning, grief just sort of pours itself right back in.

Here’s an example.

A few months after your death, Ellen and I were back at Play Group Theatre (where you’d pretty much grown to maturity and adulthood so, needless to say, we’ve never wanted to see it leave our lives). It was painful to go back, of course, but we have so many loving memories that were born there, how could we not?

G’ma Ida with a very little you and a very new Curious George (Jul 1991)

Dear Jonah,

I’ve been thinking about George — Curious George — that pervasive little imp who entered your life when you were only a year old, and who’s still very much here, living with us simply because stuffed bedtime friends don’t ever have to die. George continues to reside in your bedroom, which is now Mom’s study. I like to think that George is watching over your domain until you return but, hey, what do stuffed dolls know?

Curious George came into your life when your honorary grandparents, Fran and Gerry Weingast, gave him to you. They’d hoped that he would become one of those toys that a child won’t ever let out of their sight, which is precisely what occurred. From the moment you boys laid eyes on each other, you became the best of friends. George would follow you around for quite literally the rest of your life, so much so that even when you were still very young, while we were pretty sure you liked us, we knew without a doubt that you loved your monkey.

Dear Jonah,

I often find myself wondering where your life might have taken you. What career would you have chosen? Would you have found a partner with whom to share the empire? With a life that ended at age nineteen, you were nowhere near resolving these or many other questions. And while that was fine then, it leaves me pretty much at a loss filling in the details of the life that might have lay ahead.

Every now and then, I see something I’m sure would have caught your eye. But sometimes I see something and I’m definitely not sure what you would have thought about it. I think of you anyway.