Shortly after the search and rescue team found your body, your accountant called and said she’d had her aromatherapist blend a special floral concoction for me. She said it calmed her when her father died. I couldn’t help but think, “Did you like your dad?” Nothing short of ether might have soothed me, but it’s unlikely your accountant’s aromatherapist had a batch on hand.
Litsa Dremousis has a poignant essay at The Weeklings about all the things she would tell a loved one who had died.
I never did get your homemade burrito recipe or convince you to reconsider “30 Rock.” As I write this, my Pomeranian Thomas is sprawled alongside me, asleep on his back. I’ve had him three years and occasionally tell him stories about you and pretend he understands. I wonder what you’d think of him.
I wonder what you’d think about almost everything.
