Dear George,

I am writing you a letter I cannot mail to you. This is an unsent letter. I am writing it for me. To you. Although I know it cannot reach you. I believe in the emotional power of unsent letters. You do not know me, we haven’t met. How I know you is tragic. As your darling daughter says, because you are changing the world. Yesterday was #blackoutTuesday on Instragram, and instead of posting my nature photos, as I do, from my walks, every day, as I have done for almost four years, I instead posted a black square. I took my photos anyway. I posted them here, as I do each night, and then erased them. I wasn’t sure why. But, when you enter a ritual of remembrance, or any ritual, the ritual takes over, it carries a spiritual power of its own force. And when I went for my walk this morning, after a mostly sleepless night, thinking about you, I thought, well, today, it’s not #BlackoutTuesday. But it didn’t feel right, to post my pictures. I found this gray square in my photos, one my camera must have spontaneously taken without my awareness! See, that’s what I mean about the power of a ritual. It has its own energy. So, I posted the grayed out photo in place of sharing my Instragram photos. And realized I would take my pictures and take my walk today in memory of you. And I posted my pictures here tonight, and then deleted them. I am saving them in a secret place, in your honor. As my process of honoring you. On my walk, I decided I will do this, a week of mourning, in your honor. To think about you and find some meaning in your atrocious death. Because, if I just kept doing everything the same right now, and posted my pictures of everything I see that means something beautiful and true to me, then I would be focusing on that, on not on the horrific absence and loss and injustice and inhumanity of your murder. I am trying to learn what your life and death means, and how it’s changing the world, yes, but how it’s changing me. I saw your son on tv today too. He seemed quite brave, and vulnerable. I’m so sorry for the trauma to your beautiful children. In the brook it was exceptionally muddy, and I had my garden boots on, and I was poking around and came across a patch of blue forget-me-nots with the yellow center, poking brightly up through the mud.