In my time here.

Last night, after watching 3/4 of The Hottest State* with Mary Clare, I woke up alone on the couch, in front of the blue TV screen. It was that in between place in sleep where waking thoughts are mixed with sleeping ones, and I was momentarily convinced someone was breaking into the house. The quick feeling of severe panic was magnified by the fact that we're now short the stereotypical protector, and even though my dad's presence has probably never been the best defense against possible intruders, it took a split-second nightmare to finally realize he's gone. A week and a half later...

But in the midst of all of this, a few key learnings:
When you are sad, people like to feed you. If I never see another coffee cake again, I will be lucky.

I now know a multitude of ways to respond to "I'm sorry," "How are you holding up?" and "Take care of your mother."

Even if I thought it was just a cheesy plot device before, the urge to look for signs is irrepressible. The cardinal that lingered in the tree as I ran by panting, showering it in a cloud of sweat. The butterfly that landed on my knee while I sat in the backyard, feet propped up on the trampoline, reading an old issue of Glamour and smoking borrowed Parliaments.** What were before just overly friendly (possibly rabid?) creatures are now sources of comfort.

Even though I've spent the past week doing nothing particularly exerting, I am tired. So ridiculously tired. Sleep until 11:00 and then take a nap at noon tired. The bags under my eyes are beginning to obstruct my vision.

I could not have designed better friends if such a program or robot existed.

My brother Paul is my hero. Number one on the list. To surpass Bill Pullman and Richard Carlisle*** at just 17 years of age is a feat to be admired and a well-deserved achievement.

I am not ready to be normal again.

We**** are rockstars.



*Do not waste your time.
**Grief smoking doesn't count.
***Inventor of the coin-operated vending machine.
****You know who you are.

I will miss you.

A bit overdue...

And unless my dad learns how to turn on a computer, discover the internet, take a Google tutorial and miraculously find this blog, he will never, ever see it.

That being said, happy belated Father's Day, Dad.

I'm lucky to the oldest and potentially least-accomplished child of a greatly accomplished scholar, professor, humanitarian and all around amazing human being.

When I'm feeling thoughtful, I will ocassionally reflect on the gifts my parents have bestowed on their children... genetically (skin that burns under 60-watt light bulbs and a veritable chin lottery, of which I am the loser), materially (hubcaps, $5 Old Navy gift cards), intellectually and so on.

When it comes to what my dad has passed on, a great deal of it is fairly obvious, at least to me. My sister is a major fan of helping other people. She also likes Spanish, joining my dad as the only other fluent family member. All three of my siblings are incredibly intelligent, some are obvious leaders. Two of them have lived or will soon live in Central and South America, respectively. My brothers are good rugby players. I, on the other hand, waffle on my feelings toward mankind and will hesitate to offer anyone any sort of assistance unless I get something in return, like peanuts or back rubs. I can ask where the bathroom is in Spanish, and if I said it out loud, you would probably tell me that I'm actually telling you I have hepatitis. I'm the B student to my family's A+ average. All of my recurring nightmares have to do with playing touch football in grade school and breaking my glasses.

I imagine I will figure out my gift one of these days, but in the meantime I will wear my mediocrity with pride and view my last name as sufficient evidence of my good fortune.

Anyway, Dad, if you took all of the aforementioned steps and found this, check your email - I sent you an e-card. And I love you.