A Letter to Amy

Dear Amy,

It has been almost two weeks since you passed away, but I still hope these words find a way to reach you. I am not (entirely) crazy so I will explain a few paragraphs down this letter how I hope that might happen.
In the meantime, let me tell you the reason I’m writing this letter. A few days ago, Iulia, my wife, told me that she had read the “matrimonial ad” (as I like to call it) that you put up in the New York Times for anyone that might be interested in your husband, Jason, once you were gone. Actually, Iulia never got the nerves to read it, she just said that upon reading the title her eyes filled with tears and her chest with panic, but she reminded me that we used to read to our son, Mark, who’s now almost six, from your books. So yesterday I got to read your beautiful article about Jason. Keeping in mind that we’re talking about love, a really, really selfish feeling in terms of wanting just for you EVERYTHING the person you love has to offer, your article was, for me, at least, one of the most unselfish acts of love that I have ever come across.

But that is not the reason I’m writing this letter. Last night, after we put Mark to bed, I shuffled through the pages of your books that we have at home: Little Pea, Little Hoot & Little Oink. And as I did that I found myself smiling. Not because of the funny texts and drawings (which are as funny as they are educational), but because I started to remember the moments I would lie in bed with Mark, who must have been two at the time (maybe even younger) and I would read (actually translate into Romanian as accurate as I could) those funny, short stories. (And, yes, I must confess: as with any other kids’ book and with any other child, we read your books hundreds of times so, at those moments, maybe some harsh words were muttered towards the author).
And the memory of those times, the way he would put his little head on my chest and some times fall asleep as I read to him, or other times unexpectedly raise it to ask some question brought a glimpse of joy to me. I love reading to my son and to this day, he loves letting me read to him. Yes, nowadays it’s all about Spiderman and Star Wars and Lego Ninjago, but the love for this great father – son moment started years ago and your books, Amy, were among the ones that helped the two of us cement this love. And I know for a fact that I am not an isolated case. I know other kids that have grown up with your wonderful books. And I know parents that were as happy as can be once they were able to get their hands on a new book of yours. You, Amy, helped us all be better parents for our kids. You made it easier for us to bond with them, to create a special relationship and, very important, to instill upon them the love of reading and the miracles that can be found in a book. You made kids all over the world ask their parents for another story. And another one. And another one. I’m sure you know what a great thing that is, especially nowadays.

Now, to the matter of this letter reaching you (although, in all fairness, if you are somehow reading it, it doesn’t matter, does it?): when Mark asks me what happens when we die, I tell him that since we are all, basically, just a form of energy, once we die we remain energy, just changing our form. So that means that this virtual letter is also energy. That is why I think there might be a glimpse of hope that you will somehow read, hear or feel these words. If it is not the case, maybe through the wonders of social media this letter will be read by one of your loved ones. And maybe it will bring a tiny bit of comfort in these sad moments.
It’s devastating to lose someone you love. It’s as devastating as it is to die. But we all die some day. The only thing we can hope and strive to do while we are alive is to leave a mark into this world and its people. People we know and people we never get to meet. You have done that greatly and then some for many past, present and future parents and kids all around the world. And for that, Amy Krouse Rosenthal, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and I am forever in your debt. I never got the chance to meet you, but it was a great and wonderful privilege to read you. You have brought joy to millions and millions of people. And, no doubt, will continue to do so.

Rest in peace, wherever you are,

A Romanian father