It’s a very simple proposition: what if we forget? What if we forget the details? What if we forget their faces? What if they become reductionist cartoons, selective memory, fixed inside our stories, unverified by outside confirmation? What if they were not at all as we remember them? What if we got the stories wrong? […]
Fred and Harold and my dad were like the Marx Brothers. Or the Coen Brothers. Or the Brady Bunch. Or. Or. Or maybe there was nothing like them at all. A team. A pack. A family. A coven. A comedy show. My father loved ‘those boys’ with all his heart, and all his might and […]
Candy Pants was my dad’s hunting dog, retired to California, endured four dogs’ worth of veterinary crises, and healed me—not exactly in that order.
Today is Candy Pants’ Yahrtzeit, but we’re going to have to mark that tomorrow—I’m in too much pain from nose surgery today, which is oddly fitting.
It’s a lesson I have to relearn each time: the hardest thing is the sudden deprivation of rituals. This is the last time Fuller will ever be on my lap. Friday was the last time Fuller played with his favorite catnip mouse. One minute he’s here, the next he’s gone.