Hey there. I got your sweatshirt out of the box today. It was really foggy when I woke up to walk Marlena to school, and I found myself unpacking in the middle of the morning rush because I had to wear your sweatshirt.
Do you remember the movie Garden State? When he loses his mom and wanders around in a profound state of shock for the rest of the movie? He seems separated from the things happening around him by a thin veneer?
I think that I may be doing the same thing.
At times, when I miss you, I think this was all an astronomical joke, and I will move home and be so angry with you for pulling one over on me, give you a serious lecture on taste too. Then, of course, I realize that you would never pull something like this, ever, and when I get home you simply will still not be there, and in fact, will never, ever, ever, ever, ever be there again. Then I want to be angry with you for dying and give you a serious lecture on doing stupid things that result in death before you are one hundred and ten.
Sadly, you won't be there to listen to my lecture because you did one of the aforementioned stupid things.
Maybe it's the fog.
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