I'm Really Gonna Miss You
Farewell, Beloved Gregory
Dear Gregory,
When we hugged on Saturday morning, I didn’t know it would be our last.
As usual, we batted sassy jokes back and forth, making each other giggle while I piled produce into my basket.
As usual, from the second I walked into the market and saw you were working, until the second I walked out the door, I felt more alive.
As usual, we loved-up other customers as they’d saunter through our ‘soul sibling’ jokester joy, feeling the unique beauty streaming through a market where people actually know and care about each other — a small space where the owner knows the customers and the farmers whose food he sells.
As usual, we doted over handsome Lion’s Mane mushrooms and the morning sunlight glistening on mason jars of Dan’s fresh homemade apricot jam.
I just assumed that next time I went in to restock spinach, eggs and strawberries, you’d be there again — ready to laugh and love with me.
Because that’s what we did together.
With all that is possible in one sacred human breath, we chose to do and be the best of the best when we were together—
We laughed and loved.
I mean, why not? You and I both had seen struggles with addiction. Me with food and sugar, you with yours. We knew the agony of being human, so we could feel the other end of the spectrum too — where joy and freedom lived.
On Tuesday morning I got a call from Conner, telling me the news. Two days before, on Sunday night, your heart stopped beating.
No… No… No…
But you were so alive.
We had just hugged that morning.
I had big-sister-swooned over how utterly gorgeous you are, and told you for the 10th time that I’m here to support you to build strong boundaries because dude, you’re gonna need to “know your No’’.
When we hugged and I felt your lean body embrace me, I chuckled, “Brother, where’s your body fat? Wanna borrow some of mine?” Jokingly. With loving self amusement about the body fat that still clings to me after all those years of trying to stuff myself with food that would never satiate my true soul hunger.
There we were, laughing and loving again.
I just didn’t know it would be the last time we would laugh and love in our bodies.
Breathing together.
I’m really gonna miss you, Gregory.
You are totally free now, my sweet soul brother. No more pain weighs on your shoulders.
My whale spirit has been swimming in seas of grief, with the loss of you. I keep singing this song (Child of Light by Kenna Childs) to help the river keep gushing through the canyons of my heart. I can only imagine the agony in your mother’s heart.
And I want you to know —
Empathy lives here. It is painful being human.
We are existentially insane, coming into these bodies with a desire to feel separate from each other and God. Insanity hurts. And you felt its sharp pain.
Even though you’ve transitioned out of your body, I will always remain your ‘big sister’ and one of your greatest fans.
So juuuust in case there is any part of you that holds guilt about leaving so young, I will extend these final written words to your soul and to the souls of anyone struggling to breathe inside this thing called being human.
Recently during a very tough string of days, my closest friend wrote to me —
Whales dive deep deep down into the darkness.
Remember the other senses that are there to guide your way when you cannot see.
You can swim in the heavy, slow waters.
You don’t have to get out of it, though you will.
Remember you can breathe under water too.
It is hard and painful but you can do it. Yes, one foot, and another while you swim the deeps.
This plane is not getting easier — we must show our babies how to swim the deeps and trust the knowing in the dark. I hear your call and am sending this whale song back — I know it helps with echo location of the soul.
Precious Gregory, your hugs, jokes and smile will be so dearly missed.
The human experience is laden with rigor. When we greet difficult times with grace, letting ourselves cry out in the open, talking about it without shame, we are showing our children something all of us must learn — how to be in the dark waters.
Some of them will live much longer than we do. Some of them will die before us.
May we hold each other in our pain. May we let our grief widen our capacity to feel the bliss that is also our birthright. May we breathe with deep inhales and exhales, held in the loving arms of community, witnessed by those who shine their Light on our dark seas.
Jessica Rios
Writer + Performer + Coach
