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Hi mom,

This is profoundly fucking weird.  You’re dead, L & I have just come back from sorting through your things, building out your garden at Farallone View (right across from Tori’s playground– you’d have loved it!), & trying to help dad along a little bit.

That man’s never been easy.

Anyway, I found this pen that I’m pretty certain Eric and I got you many, many birthdays ago, & I thought the thing to do would be to write to you for a bit.  Sort of the way we used to talk every few days– about various inanities in our lives.

Nothing important, nothing too legible, just another few minutes you and I could share with one another.

So what’s news?  The fucking cat– your grand-cat– has been predictably awful since our return.   I was on a really contentious call this morning with two of my asshole coworkers, who I’ve described to you [details removed], & whenever I tried to stomp down the shit-stirrer to restore order, my (very important and salient) points were punctured by yelps as Joles attacked my shins.

She didn’t much care for being ignored, but who does?

This is where I’d usually ask you how my brother is, how my grandmother is, how my uncles are.  You were always so good at keeping track of everyone.

Here’s a thing that would probably drive you nuts:

I got into a stupid Facebook bitchfight with Jeff today.  What started out as a heartfelt response about all that crap that went down with the break-in– sorry, what started out as a response to that amazing woman who publicly posted her address to the court after having been raped by that Stanford swim-team dirtbag– the guy who’s daddy got him off with an expensive defense team, in spite of LUDICROUSLY cavalier letters to the court– devolved into me basically saying “WHAT THE FUCK?!” to his response to my plea for a leveled playing field in the legal system.

Sorry.  That’s your little brother, and he’s going through some hard times.  I shouldn’t villainize him for acting like a moron.

Sorry.

Anyway, I can’t think of anything more tragic than stewing over Facebook.  It’s just really hard– you put your feelings out about a serious nadir in your life,  & you get something completely inane.  It becomes an easy target for all the bad feelings circling around a thing.

As I said to L, he deserves the shit I’ve given him, no the whole diarrhea factory.

IN OTHER NEWS, dad’s giving Hil the bean necklace.  He’s inadvertently making me the bad guy in all these confrontations with that branch of the family.  First, it was when we put your ashes to rest– she needn’t be on the boat; call her; now she should be on the boat.  Felt like a freaking ogre there.  Now, it’s with your jewelry– he wants the bean; give her the bean.  That man turns on a pin, & I’m stuck looking like the asshole.

Not his fault.  Everything is fraught without you to broker peace, moms, & he’s not in the best headspace to make decisions.

I’m trying my hardest there, for you.

Anyway.

This is where I’m supposed to tell you that I don’t have the words to describe how badly I miss you, but I took a pretty decent run at them on my way down from the awful restaurant L & I ate at tonight:

Frog-in-the-throat, eyes like two lightly-boiled eggs, mouth set like a streak of piss, a desire to replace the immense pressure & loneliness & worry with you, who I can only see in the past-tense, through the pictures that everyone’s been sharing, the clothing in your closet, the awful art you bought from your very sweet friends, the jewelry, the weird old silver you so cherished Bubbah & Zedah, the scraps of handwriting we’ve found, this fucking pen.

I miss you, mom.

Ian

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