A Thanksgiving Letter

Mark, my friend,

Hi, buddyroo. I'm here in the space between Sharon's death and your
death, the four month countdown. I don't feel it this year, I quit
my shrink. I don't think about you much now, but Thanksgiving is
tomorrow, and I always think about you on Thanksgiving. I miss
Thanksgivings with you, I miss Thanksgivings when our parents were
married and I miss Thanksgivings that were filled with a happy family
feeling. I miss Mom's cooking. I miss you, I miss hanging out in
the kitchen with you frying mashed potato patties by the light over
the stove. I miss sticking our greasy turkey fingers in the cat's
face to feel her tongue. I miss putting olives on our fingertips and
having fights with them. I miss watching you eat three helpings. I
miss Thanksgivings at your house, with the big ugly turkey platter
from our childhood. I miss Sharon and I even miss her cooking, her
Stove Top stuffing. I miss going over to your house and I miss the
kids.

Sometimes when I think of you I remember our last hug, how long it
was, how special it was and I relive it. Sometimes I even imagine us
naked in some sort of cosmic sibling way. I think about how our
bodies were once connected to the same place in Mom's body. I think
about how much you suffered in your body.

John doesn't invite Mom and Dad over for Thanksgiving. They eat
alone. They buy some pre-prepared food at the store and eat that
alone. I don't know which one of the three of them I'm most angry
at. I feel like I have taken your place in the family. Most days I
feel like they're responsible for themselves and the only person I
can make happy is myself. But when I'm around them, I do my best to
bring them some happiness. I know that our time together is short,
and one day there will be one less of us and so on. Sometimes I
think about wanting Mom to die next. I wish you had died last, not
first.

These are tough thoughts, Roo. It's hard to believe that someone as
generous and kind as you could bring this about. I forgive you, I
always have.

If I could have you back for one day, buddy, I'd have you over to my
house for dinner. Just me and you. We'd have drinks and we'd get
all silly and happy and I'd feed you everything you like. Mounds of
it. And I'd hug you again. And I'd make that our last hug, just me
and you, laughing in my kitchen, you being taken care of by me.
Forever.

I love you.

Linda