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We played match after match of scrabble for hour after hour when it rained. We sat surrounded by places and things which held tight to the moisture. You held tight to the dictionary and regularly prevailed.

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No, you aren't charming exactly, but magnetic.

You took on as patriarch, trying to save and pull us in. So like him.

Your kindness can be overwhelming, but still and always defined by your burpist history.

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Lucy- My foot sure is asleep.

later

Lucy- Accidents sure aren't what my new bed is for.

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How are you today? Rob and I are celebrating our 12th (gulp) wedding anniversary on Saturday- if his plane will take off and land in the monsoon that's approaching. Parenting together is infinitely more pleasing than going solo.

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At the reunion I was touched by your sincerity. By your energy and interest and kindness and easy smile.

It's like your mother- I hear her voice and see her smile when I think of you.

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You got fired for being inappropriate. It was easy to understand after witnessing your dance moves post-beach party in the Bahamas. Were you channeling Patrick Swayze?

But before that- you alone tried to boost morale.

36x365x99!

We share the burden of family secrets- because the weight is heavy alone.

I think if a secret weight fell to me I would share at least with you- I think.

On you- I wish love-

36x365x98

You talked about writing a book about Fenway. You chewed gum in class. You looked at us with light and saw us and made efforts to distract us from note writing with the great Annie Dillard.

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There's a snapshot in my head: you, opening up a brown bag covered text book looking at a faded dog-eared black and white of your late mother. Embracing sorrow.

Now you help grieving children. Perfect.

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One- actually two of my x365s have hurt someone's feelings.

I feel sorry about that.

36 words are so few to adequately encapsulate a memory or a relationship. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the words string together nicely and with ease, sometimes it's a struggle and I feel limited by the snapshot I'm challenged to provide, and sometimes it's boring or severely lacking.

This x365 is equal parts pulling pieces out of the trap of my memory and trying to craft them in an interesting way from a writer's perspective. What I write is true- but only true to me and only in relationship to the snippet that I've pulled out.

I only ever expect the people who are reading these to identify a few of the "subjects," and only a few have I written expecting the person to read it. I don't use names intentionally (though if you think you know or want to know I'm happy to discuss).

Pssht. Anyway:

x96

Before you died you took a comprehensive inventory and gifted treasures to us. Mine you gave to me while you were still able.

I'd like to think we would have talked and listened and known.

p.s. tell me: what's the last song you listened to? Friend of the Devil is playing on iTunes right now, and before that it was The Cookie Bakers of the Night by Laurie Berkner. You have to love the party shuffle...

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You've cheated on your wife of many years, your son, and your daughters. What did you say to yourself to make that bitter betrayal less real?

Will they know?

Can she heal?

Can he repent?

Fool.

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Your style is diametrically opposed to "helicopter parenting." In public, when the kids warrent even a word, you're proud to roughly rebuff and belittle them. I wonder if they are already learning to hide the truth.

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At a family party my playful young son raised the hose towards your car- "HE JUST WAXED IT!!" and towards you. You grabbed and if you'd gotten him you surely would have smacked him. You're mean.

9/11/2008

I won't be here tomorrow. I won't be at GNMParents, either.

Unlike most days when I am away, tomorrow's absence is intentional.

I've written a bit lately about living intentionally.

I am accepting Jon and Cathleen's invitations to not blog, tweet, or facebook tomorrow.

That will free up a little more time for listening and for being with.

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From our first meeting I remember the (exact) Tupperware you left behind.

From our second meeting I remember a late departure due to unexpected ease.

On and on I remember understanding inappropriate humor and voluminous vomit.

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You were crisp, clean, dry-witted, and read; all juxtaposed by cigarettes.

I was learning to write. And love.

One product of an opening sentence assignment stuck:

My brother hasn't died yet, but the process has begun.

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I barely remember your roundish preteen face. I looked for summer "love" in our awkward exchanges. I hadn't thought about you in decades, until the moment she told me you'd taken enough drugs to kill yourself.

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Once at school, you discarded your mom approved collared shirt for a self approved concert tee. Hardly hard core. We walked to Indian Rock together, holding hands, but what on earth did we have to say?

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You surprised me when we met. I expected next to, I found (very much) with. Interested and dedicated, invested and willing to comfort and clean up vomit.

I look forward to sitting around the table again.

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We learned that you were the youngest victim on September 11th.

I'm brought swiftly to tears imagining the loss of you.

You played with my son at daycare, then suddenly (and still) the world grieved you.

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Christine was 2, and I don't pretend to be qualified to talk about her, I have only been remembering her.