I was jolted by a shock last night -- I'd been in that sweet state before sleep, the state that I am sometimes trapped in for hours, craving unconsciousness (did you ever know I had trouble sleeping?) --- I was jolted -- by the sudden knowledge that I had forgotten your anniversary. The shock ran through my whole body. The day came, the day passed. I took no time to pause. I forgot.

(How long does it take before you forget?

Four years.)

May 29 was ten days ago, and in those ten days I never thought about you dying.

But you know, four years ago, you died; you died with me holding your hand, you died with your mouth open, you died with your feet out from under the covers.

So I marked it last night, ten days late, shocked awake.

(And I have to say, Dad, the distance between us in these four years has again grown tremendous.)