I'm packing for family Christmas in South Carolina.

I'm excited, my kids are bouncing off the walls.

Meanwhile, my heart is heavy.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Eric, his family, and everybody else who loved him.

My heart goes out to his regular customers; after all, he's made their coffee for six years.

That's a special bond, too.

And considering that Eric had perfected the art of retail conversation, I am confident that his customers will feel the void.

I'm just so sad, and I don't know what else to do than to write about it.

This will be the first time in six years that Eric and I won't exchange texts on Christmas, so I'm going to write him a letter instead.

Dear Eric,

Well, friend, this sure isn't getting any easier. I'm trying really hard to pull from your humor and not be so sad. Carlos and I have laughed hysterically several times, just sitting on the bed remembering you. And I keep sending Michelle "remember when Eric, ...?" texts. I can't help it, it's just the way I'm processing all this. We are all in shock, but I think you always knew you'd die young. I'd hush you whenever you'd say it, but you knew.

You were a mix of a child at heart and an old soul. You had a depth about you, I always felt like you genuinely cared about me. You were fiercely protective over us girls whenever creepers came around, or hard times fell. I'm sorry for the times I was unkind to you, that store was sometimes like a pressure cooker, and you often got the brunt of it.

Because I know you'd want to know, I got the boys each a 3DS for Christmas.

I miss you, buddy.

-me