Do you remember how we used to walk our pitbulls down the sidewalk and terrorize the unnecessary bouncers at that pretentious bar, Grass? You called it "Ass". You were always so indignant about pretension, and would travel coach with your Louis Vuitton bags. I loved that about you. I also loved how you would wear a pair of white jeans and let them drag in the dirt and not worry about keeping them immaculate. I emulate you in these ways, so as not to take myself so seriously. You could be extremely self-conscious, but you taught me how to laugh at so many things, without being cruel. We would go to a nice sushi restaurant in our paint-covered clothes and dried sweat and sit outside and drink margaritas for you and Thai iced teas for me. You taught me how to eat edamame and laughed your teeth out when I first picked up one of the pods you had already emptied and put it in my mouth. We shopped at Saks in leather flip-flops and cut-off jeans and spent hours in Target, perusing every aisle. We bought old houses a few blocks away from each other in a gritty neighborhood in Miami and prided ourselves on living there and loving it just as it was. I just read in Elle Decor that there is now a Christian Louboutin store a few blocks away from where we lived, and it crushes my heart that I can't call you and tell you that so we can cackle over our prescience. We fought like mad and just as quickly let things go, like children do. You were my best friend, my brother, and my sister. Once you told me that in a past life, you were an aristocrat, and I was your servant, which infuriated me then, and makes me laugh now. I called you "Princess" to get under your skin, then I noticed you changed your ebay ID to "honkytonkprincess", and I realized you secretly loved it.
You met my son once, and I'm so thankful for that. I always thought my children would grow up with you in their lives, and it breaks my heart that they will miss out on knowing such an amazing person and such an incredible heart. When I point to you in a photograph, my son calls you "Mommy's Jeffrey". I took for granted that you would always be in my life, because I knew that our love was so big, that nothing we could say or do would ever be bigger than that. For months after you died, I felt you in my baby's bedroom at night, and I kept telling you not to appear in the dark or you would scare me to death, but I never saw you at night or in the daylight. Sometimes, when I was driving on a sunny day and a Prince song was playing, you were in the passenger seat with me. You went a lot of places with me the summer after you died. I saw you in my dreams and even in those dreams, we both knew you were gone from this world. I don't see you or feel you as often any more, and I hope that means that you were able to move on, and that you and Petunia are walking together somewhere beautiful. I hope Petunia has lots of seagulls to chase and you have designer shoes to wear, and I hope you know how madly you were adored by me and by everyone else who thought of you as their one, true, soulmate friend. I will never stop missing you and I will never stop loving you, Jeffrey.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Today was one of those magic days, where everything is ordinary but seems so special. From the morning spent in bed with my husband, my son, and my baby, giggling and wrestling and playing "monster under the covers", to finding my husband and son asleep in the rocking chair upstairs, a Curious George book open on their laps. The baby shared the first smiles of her life with us today. My son and I walked outside in the sun, searching for frogs in our small pond, and counted the seven goldfish and one koi in the larger fountain, while baby sister napped in my arms. We ate spinach & feta pizza and chicken wings and licked homemade barbeque sauce from our fingers. My son wore his first ever red koolaid moustache. My husband and son built train tracks on the floor, while the baby laughed out loud in her sleep. Tonight, we visited our neighbors in the evening and walked back in the dark along the gravel road, with a flashlight to guide us home.
- Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane
- The Bride Stripped Bare by Nikki Gemmell (reread)
- Guilty Pleasures by Laurell K. Hamilton
- The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler
- Rabbit, Run by John Updike
- Dexter In the Dark by Jeff Lindsay
- Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
- Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
- The Road by Cormac McCarthy
- The Box: Uncanny Stories by Richard Matheson