It’s been a year without you.
I can’t believe it.
Seven months ago, I wrote this post reflecting on everything. A lot has happened since then, so I figured I would write you a letter to tell you about it all — even though I’m sure you’ve been watching this whole time.
For Babo:
The Zbog Tebe collection had an amazing response from the diaspora. Within the first week, we sold 30 pieces from the collection which turned out to be over $1,000 in revenue. Kind of insane, isn’t it? People who had never even gotten the chance to meet you were suddenly buying clothing that represented your strength. But what really touched me the most was the fact that I had somehow gotten people to embrace being vulnerable again.
For months on end after the launch, I was getting long messages on Instagram from complete strangers saying how much hearing and reading my story meant to them. Some of them made me almost start crying in public, some of them had my jaw drop to the floor, and some of them had me just sitting there in awe for a good fifteen minutes.
All of them had also lost their dad’s, and from that moment on, it became even clearer how many people were going through the same thing I was going through.
In March, I flew to Michigan with Minela to visit Zerina — one of our ZT collaborators, and now one of my closest friends. Her dad passed away after a tragic car accident in Bosna almost three years ago and she’s also a Leo like me so we get along really well. We had our first Balkan Bred meet-up in Detroit and let’s just say I never thought I could get a bunch of random people to show up to sing karaoke and take pictures but hey, we did it.
The night we got back from Michigan, my car wouldn’t start. At this point, it was already past midnight on a Sunday and we were exhausted, so there was no use in calling anyone to help fix it. Had this happened two years ago, the old me would have probably freaked out and called you.
I don’t think I even told mom about it until the next day. I just laughed, called a Lyft, and said to Minela, “We’ll just deal with it in the morning.” Kind of amazing how unphased I was by the whole situation, but then again, are we really even surprised after all that’s happened?
The next day was Monday, so no one could really come help us until after they got off work. But we had jumper cables so hey, it was worth a shot, right?
I didn’t have a damn clue how to jump a car.
A few Google searches, a couple FaceTime calls with our guy friends, and one ‘bismillah’ as I turned the key in the ignition was all it took for my little Hondica to rev back to life.
I hope you’re proud.
Speaking of cars, I drive yours a lot. I’m not sure if it’s because it reminds me of you or because I love seeing the look on people’s faces when I pull up in an Expedition, but either way, I’ll drive her until she breaks down. Right now, we’re 141,444 miles strong — I took her for an oil change, don’t worry.
Last week I was driving down I-75 with my Spotify on shuffle, only to have this Keith Urban song start playing. Me and you must have listened to country music just as much as we listened to Balkan music because I knew almost every single word. But what got me the most was the line about “Cuban cigars” and how you’d “smoke ‘em nice and slow” like they were good for you.
A wave of emotions hit me — but it wasn’t so much sadness as it was relief. Even as I was going through the motions of everyday life, I knew you were there with me. It can be hard to believe in something you can’t even see, but I’m thankful for these signs because they’re living proof that you’ve been with me this entire time.
I’m still talking to the guy I went out on a date with — the one whose excitement for soccer and outlook on life was very similar to yours. He’s deployed right now, so it’s not like we talk every day, and I honestly thought I would’ve forgotten about this by now, but there’s just something about him that I can’t shake.
This year, your passing falls on Memorial Day and even though your death had nothing to do with serving our country, I think it’s kind of peculiar that this guy is in the military. Not to mention your birthday falls one day after Veteran’s Day, too.
I remember when you’d tell me about your time in the Bosnian army and how you’d write letters back and forth with mom. The other day she told me that after your first date, you guys didn’t see each other for another 8 months. But when you finally did, it was like nothing had ever changed because you both knew you’d end up together.
It’s also been about 8 months since we’ve seen each other and I’m starting to wonder if God has been trying to tell me something. 8 has always been my lucky number — being born on the 8th day of the 8th month in the year — it kinda has to be, right?
Today we went to go and see you. It wasn’t until I saw your name on the headstone that it hit me again. You aren’t here. And it sucks.
I’m still sad, but I’m not broken. I still cry, but it’s always when I least expect it — not when I’m standing right in front of you.
If anything, I just felt empty in that moment.
The whole time, the sun was in my eyes and I kept averting my gaze from your headstone to the one of the person buried next to you. I stared at it for awhile, and I’m not sure if I was just trying to distract myself from my current reality or what, but after a few minutes, I realized why.
June 8.
His birthday. I don’t know how I even remembered this from our date, but not a single doubt crossed my mind that it was indeed that day. Because it was on the 8th day, just like mine — only different months. That’s why I remembered.
Maybe this is just a long string of coincidences, but it’s almost too strange to be a coincidence.
I think it’s because he reminds me so much of you.
I don’t really have a good explanation for this one because I haven’t even known him for very long, but one thing I do know is that you both share just as much love for your birth country as you do for the country you lived over 20 years of your lives in.
You have the same appreciation for the little things in life and love reminiscing on old memories.
You both light up the entire room with your charming sense of humor, and that’s something I can never forget.
Babo, there’s no telling what will happen and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but this is starting to sound an awful lot like your and mom’s love story.
I’ve learned to let it go and if it really is supposed to happen, then we’ll find our way back to each other. You and mom are living proof.
You may not be here to walk me down the aisle, but whenever that ends up happening, I know you’ll be there. You’ll be watching and saying, “I love you maco,” as I go through every monumental milestone in life.
And for now, that’s all I really need to know.