Remembering the Future

"The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you'll never have." - Søren Kierkegaard*

My beautiful baby brother would be, should be, turning 50 today. Having lived these 11+ years without him, I have a hard time imagining him at 50 but, more acutely, it is far too painful to attempt to do so. It's painful to "remember the future" I'd expected, with my brother in it. It's painful to think of who he would be today, where he would be, how much better his life might be than before, how many things he'd have learned, felt, explored, discovered. So I tend to push those thoughts out of my mind - perhaps not the best way to deal with grief, but the way that protects me from the overwhelming sadness that I cannot make room for in my day-to-day life. That overwhelming sadness and grief constantly rests just below the surface, patiently waiting for me to set aside time to let it erupt naturally. All it takes is a thought, a song, a memory - at least once a day, I think of something that only Amir would understand and I ache from not being able to share it with him or ask him about it.

Ever since turning we entered 2026, I have been anticipating and dreading this day - the day Amir would have turned 50, joining me and our sister on this side of middle age where many things fall into place and others finally lose their grip on our attention and their battle for importance. How I wish he'd entered the "fuck it" phase of middle age, having earned the privilege to not care so much about how you're perceived and instead drop the crippling need to please everyone. It's incredibly freeing and my dear brother missed out on it.

I'll admit a big part of my having learned to say "fuck it" comes from having been through so much devastating loss in my 40s. My ever-lingering grief has changed me in every perceivable way and, as a kind of sick benefit to being sad much of the time, I can put aside the things that don't matter in life and truly, sharply, intently focus on the things that do.

Amir was such a gorgeous kid and young man - I just know his aqua eyes would still be as blue and the crows' feet around them would serve as indicators of a busy, active life, one full of thoughts and curiosities and wonderful moments, one filled with ups and downs, big smiles (we hope) and often bigger sighs. Would his hair be showing signs of grey like that of his two sisters? Would he have gained some weight around the middle like so many friends his age? He was always committed to fitness - would he have amped up the strength training like Yael and I have, to try to keep our bones healthy and ward off the seemingly inevitable eventual broken hip?

Where would he live? Would he have abandoned the rainy reality of Portland (which he loved, but maybe didn't serve his depression)? Would he have sought a sunnier spot? Would he be happy in his work? Would he have finished college? Would he be single? Coupled? What pets would he have? What bands would he have tickets to see? He was a frequent insomniac - what issues would keep him up at night now? He had the sharpest sense of humor - what would make him laugh these days? What would he be doing to strip away the stresses and headaches of everyday life? How distressed would he be by the slow demise of our democracy at the hands of incompetent clowns? How overwhelmed by social media and the endless choices of streaming entertainment? How delighted at the soft purr of a kitten, the sound of a new song by a favorite band, the patter of rain on his windows, the smell of our mom's cooking, the taste of a glorious sashimi platter, the unexpected belly laugh in a sharp movie?

There are no answers to these questions other than the ones I write myself. At every family gathering, I will always picture him at the table - where would he sit? What would he be wearing? Which food would he reach for first? What hilarious gems or insightful words would he contribute to the conversation? Every gathering, every single time, there's someone missing who will never join us again.

Today, I'll light a candle and listen to Amir's favorite music and think of him in the way only I remember him, for my relationship with him was unlike anyone's else and he will always be mine to hold close and remember.

*I heard this quote on All There Is, Anderson Cooper's wonderful podcast about grief and loss.

The Brightest Light in My Young Life

Amir at 16

A few days ago, I was notified that someone had left a comment on this blog. I opened it to review, not expecting to see the words of a childhood friend who had only just learned Amir had died. Adam, thank you so much for reaching out and sharing stories about Amir! After 10 intensely painful years without him, it fills my heart to know people loved him and still think of him and remember him, just as I do every single day of my life.

From Adam:

"I learned today that my childhood friend Amir passed away more than a decade ago. I have done many online searches for him over the years, and figured he was just not someone who wanted to be found. Maybe he chose not to be on social media. Maybe he was living abroad. I had no idea.

Since the recent LA fires, I have been going through old family photos and preserving everything as digital records. I came across a photo of Amir... in my bedroom, in Granada Hills, CA, around 1984, and it brought back so many memories.

I may have met Amir at a summer camp one year, but I don’t really know where we met. We became great friends. Amir was always my creative friend. I did things with Amir that I would never have done with anyone else.

For example, we worked for weeks on a digital newsletter of sorts. We used my mom’s Apple II era computer and the original Print Shop software and wrote the “ALAP Times, Fun with Adam and Amir” (Adam Lieberthal & Amir Prizant). We did a number of these and then watched as the dot matrix printer slowly published our greatest works, recounting our fun times together.

Amir was all about creation in one form or another. Over at his place in Chatsworth, we would make puppet shows with his dolls. Amir had what I remember as being a legit, Jim Henson issued Kermit The Frog. We would get into those shows as if those puppets were our good friends and we would make them talk and laugh and we had so much fun in that creative space.

Amir introduced me to an entire world of recorded music. We would listen to his records for hours. King Crimson, Gentle Giant, The Outlaws, Yes, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and early Genesis were just some of the bands that I listen to a lot, and every time, I think about Amir and his passion for music and the fact that he was the one who introduced me to them.

For better or worse, I had my first positive recreational drug experiences with Amir. We would get high in his bedroom and laugh our asses off. We were on the same page. We shared the same experiences. We were really in sync. We laughed and laughed and didn’t even think about it. 

After eventually crashing out, I fondly remember waking up to a giant breakfast! Amir’s mom would make this spread that I had never seen! My family never did anything like this. We had eggs and toast and all the fun stuff for breakfast! Amir had a special affinity for muenster cheese. I had never even heard of muster cheese, and I thought it was so funny, just the name alone! Amir would fold his muenster cheese carefully over and it would break apart and he would relish in the flavor of each little broken piece. I still love muenster cheese and I will buy packs of slices and break one off, bit by bit, bite by small bite, and watch the cheese crease eventually break apart at the seam, just like Amir did and I think of him every time. Muenster cheese on an egg scramble? Yes please. Oh, you have Muenster cheese for my sandwich? Yes please! And every time through my entire life since probably age 8, it’s Amir who is in my mind.

Amir was one of those friends that I didn’t hold onto long enough. For whatever reason, we drifted apart. I saw him twice since the golden years, I don’t know which event came first. Once was at Tower Records in Northridge. I worked there for a few summers during college. I worked in the classical room. I went there one day, a year later after my stint as an employee, and there was my friend Amir, with his name badge and everything, working where else, in the classical room! 

We really were soul brothers. I wish that I had nourished our relationship more. Maybe I felt threatened by his other close friendships. He was so personable and easy to get along with. Maybe I didn’t feel like I could compete. That’s my own racket. But after reading all these beautiful comments, I really wish more than ever that I didn't let was turned out to be much too much time go by.

This one goes out to the one I love. This one goes out to the one I left behind.

This one goes out to my friend Amir. Rest in Peace, my brother. You were the brightest light in my young life. Thank you for your kindness and creativity. And I love you. Always have. Always will."

Ten Years Gone*

10 years today. I've written so much about Amir over the years, yet today I can't find the right words. Marking 10 years is no different from 9 years or 11 years or 50 years - my heart aches as profoundly today as it did from the first day we were forced to live without you and it will never not ache. Grief does NOT get easier. My brain may have become accustomed to not seeing you, not talking to you, not making plans with you, not sharing our day-to-day lives. But your absence never gets easier to accept. Days go by with no tears, but they are always just underneath the surface, waiting for the simplest trigger to coax them out. (Usually a random song playing in a supermarket, or a '70s-model car rolling by, or the merest mention of Sesame Street or Star Wars, or the enlightenment gained from a music podcast or documentary that I'd give my left arm to be able to share with you.)

Listening this morning to music you loved that recalls so many memories of how we'd listen together, on the floor in front of the stereo, in the car on road trips, in the backyard, at parties with childhood friends and cousins. Recalling you dancing around the living room as a kid, mistaking lyrics, calling me into the den in MTV's infancy, sitting rapt on the couch as we embraced the exciting new frontier of music videos and waited impatiently for our favorites to air.

If I could lock away all my memories of you in a safe place that I would always be able to access without any fear of them fading as time moves forward, I would pay any money to do so.

I've aged 10 years without you here, visible and mental signs of which have been accelerated by your loss and the giant hole it has left in our lives. And yet somehow we go on without you and will continue to do so, diminished at times but also grateful and emboldened to make the most of this life.

*one of many Led Zeppelin songs Amir loved (as do I)

Crumbs of Peace

Isn't that a lovely term? "Crumbs of peace." A fellow member of my bereaved siblings group uses this term to describe little signs and winks she receives from her dead sister. Those of us who have lost someone so precious to us find comfort in our own "signs" that they are near - a particular bird, a song on the radio, a feather drifting past, a flicker of lights, a penny or other coin found on the street. For me, the first of these signs came on New Year's Eve, 2015 - one year after Amir's death and only 5 months after Jason's - when a framed photo I have of the two of them that rested on a bookcase in my old apartment suddenly hurled itself from the shelf and landed at my feet as I glanced it while walking past. No joke. I don't believe in an afterlife or anything like that, but in that moment, I felt like the two of them were either (a) fucking with me for a laugh, or (b) letting me know they loved me and were still with me. That is a crumb of peace, which I cherish.

It's April again, a month that should include celebrating Amir's birthday WITH HIM and not just sadly imagining who he would have been. I don't need a birthday to celebrate him - I do this in my own way every fucking day. He should have been 48 this year. I'm sure I'll want to write on the 7th, but for now, it's Monday and work beckons.

Still, I awoke feeling mournful, the "Aprilness" setting in - that familiar sadness that creeps in at the start of a season so ripe with blooming and rebirth. Grieving feels infinitely heavier when life is blossoming all around. It's a heaviness that's hard to express to anyone who's not experienced it.

Since Amir's death, one of my most treasured possessions has been his blue/green hoodie, which I have worn only at home but nearly every day in the chill of the fall-winter-spring months. (I think it’s the one he’s wearing in the photo.) It no longer smelled like him or even like his cigarettes; still, washing it for the first time was painful, as if I was erasing him in some way. Sadly, my precious piece of Amir has become so worn out that I decided to retire it before it lost its former shape completely. 

Amir's hoodie is now carefully folded and resting in a box filled with letters, cards and other trinkets from Amir – the box that means more to me than anything else in my home. My own crumb of peace.

If We Love, We Grieve

My beautiful brother would be, should be, 47 years old today. I have not written here in two years, partly because it’s not easy to find new ways to express my endless sadness at living without Amir all this time. 99 months without him. How could I even attempt to describe the enormous void in my life where my brother, my precious second sibling, should be? 

Amir's birthday is a day to celebrate his life, not his death, and to imagine who he would have been as he aged - a reality we have been sadly denied.

For over 8 years, I have struggled to put my feelings into words that would do justice to how deeply I miss him every single day. So, as I’ve done countless times when my own words fail me (an instance that is happening with more frequency as I inch ever closer to my golden years), I will turn to the words of others that perfectly describe my ongoing sorrow over my brother’s absence and what I've learned and continue to learn from it:

Dr. Edith Eger: 

“We grieve over not what happened but what didn’t happen.”

This is what I think of as “the grief double-whammy”: it’s our own grief over losing them and missing them, plus the grief we feel for them and for everything they are missing out on. This is something I did not understand in the slightest until I experienced profound loss. And I never could have imagined that it gets more pronounced with the passing of time.

Marc Maron (talking with Stanley Tucci):

“It's interesting that you bring up absence, because that's what becomes really hard to understand, is that somebody was here. And now you live with their absence for the rest of your life. And it's almost active and it's always there – that absence. You grieve, you move through things, your heart heals, your mind heals, maybe you move on, but that absence is so profound because all possibilities are gone.”

When I heard Marc Maron say "all possibilities are gone" during this interview on his podcast, I absolutely felt it in my chest. It is one of the heaviest parts of grief to grapple with: there are no possibilities for Amir to become what he wanted to be, no possibilities for him to be part of our lives, no possibilities for us to spend time with him again.

Nick Cave:

“It seems to me that if we love, we grieve. That's the deal. That's the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love and, like love, grief is non-negotiable. There is a vastness to grief that overwhelms our minuscule selves. We are tiny, trembling clusters of atoms subsumed within grief's awesome presence. It occupies the core of our being and extends through our fingers to the limits of the universe. Within that whirling gyre, all manner of madnesses exist; ghosts and spirits and dream visitations, and everything else that we, in our anguish, will into existence. These are precious gifts that are as valid and as real as we need them to be. They are the spirit guides that lead us out of the darkness.”

Michelle Obama:

“It hurts to live after someone has died. It just does. It can hurt to walk down a hallway or open the fridge. It hurts to put on a pair of socks, to brush your teeth. Food tastes like nothing. Colors go flat. Music hurts, and so do memories. You look at something you'd otherwise find beautiful… and it only somehow deepens the loss. Grief is so lonely this way.”

Grief is so lonely, indeed. And surprisingly, it only deepens over time, as we get farther and farther away from the time he was here with us. The road ahead without him seems impossibly long and empty, but we push forward as best we can, missing him every step of the way and left to only imagine who he would be.

Rotisserie

Our beautiful Amir should have reached age 45 today. I'm still in disbelief as I type that sentence. He will always be 38. Losing Amir and living without him never gets easier, the hole in our hearts never gets smaller and the enormous void in our family never goes away. Who would he be at 45? Would he be happier? Healthier? Thriving? Surviving? Where would he be? His absence is felt every single day of our lives, in countless, unimaginable, indescribable ways.

When I think of all the visits and conversations we'd have had and the memories we'd have made over these past 6 years, I am physically shaken by the thought of how much we have missed. This is torture. I don't advise anyone deeply grieving to explore those thoughts. It hurts too much.

I read this quote in the NY Times a few months ago, about a man who lost his wife and children in a plane crash in the '70s: "His life was utterly bifurcated by the accident. There was Act I and Act II."

I know this sad truth so well. The profoundly different second act of our lives began on that horrific Saturday, November 22, 2014. The first act is a sublime, vivid, essential catalog of memories. But there are no more memories to be made with Amir. That heartbreaking fact will never be acceptable or understandable.

That said, I am ever grateful to have those vivid memories. Here's one that makes me smile often: Amir was 6 or 7, we were in a restaurant with our parents and we were studying our menus when Amir declared he wanted the "RAW-di-serry" chicken. I doubt he'd ever seen the word "rotisserie" nor did he know what it meant, but he was eager to show off his advanced reading skills and his grasp of multi-syllable words. To this day, whenever I see the word "rotisserie," I can only hear it in my mind as "RAW-di-serry" -- the result of a proud attempt by a whip-smart kid to impress his family with his growing vocabulary.

Amir, we miss you more than any words could express. Friends, please conjure your own memories of Amir today - remember a funny moment, something brilliant he wrote or said, the warmth of his smile, his silliness, his wit, his unmatched Amir-ness. There is no one on this earth like him, nor will there ever be.

Incomplete

Recently, a fellow bereaved sibling told our group that he felt he'd lost the "one true witness" to his childhood. This statement has stayed with me, lingering in my brain for weeks. Yes, I still have my sister and we share infinite memories of childhood. But Amir was a vital witness, a third keeper of our childhood memories. Without him, so many memories are fuzzier, so many incidents and events are lost to our minds. We will forever be lacking his voice speaking truth to the lives we've lived. Losing a sibling closes the window to so many memories and certainties. Yael and I have lost a witness.

On that note, I was recently thinking about the line "You complete me" from the movie Jerry Maguire. Even seeing it (with Yael) in our 20s, I found that line ridiculous, thinking even then that no partner or lover would ever make me "complete." My siblings completed me. I believed that from a young age. Much as I adored my late husband Jason and the huge role he played in making my life fuller, he did not make me "complete."

My siblings made me complete. And, without both of them, I am simply... incomplete. Like a jigsaw puzzle missing a piece. I am incomplete and I will be until my last day.

That leads me to a podcast I relate to hugely: Last Day, created by Stephanie Wittels Wachs, who lost her beloved younger brother and only sibling. Her wonderful podcast delves deeply into the painful subjects of addiction, mental illness and suicide. In a recent episode, she said of herself and her parents, "We used to measure time in weeks and months and years. Now, there were two categories: before he died and after. And everything that came before suddenly felt futile."

This resonates with me every single day of my life since November 22, 2014. The before and after is stark, drastic and profound. I look at photos of Yael and my parents and I from before Amir died and we look like different people, people untouched by the immeasurable pain and relentless grief that would mark the rest of our lives after that unimaginable November day six years ago. I miss those people and those full lives more than I can possibly express.

April, Come She Will (featuring Weird Al!)

My beautiful brother Amir should have turned 44 today. It is beyond belief how intensely I miss him every day. The month of April always feels heavy and sad because it holds this special date on which we no longer celebrate, but grieve what should have been. Of course, being in the middle of a pandemic only adds to the heaviness and adds a bonus layer of anxiety. And particularly at a time when so many families are bonding over shared time at home together.

In all of this, I cannot count the number of times each day I desperately wish I could be sharing this surreal new normal with Amir: talking to him about all the strangeness and scariness of what's happening all around us and finding ways to laugh through our anxiety.

When it comes to laughter, no one fostered it more significantly or continuously in my life than Amir did. A few weeks ago, one of my favorite podcasts, Hit Parade, did an entire episode about the brilliant Weird Al Yankovic. It shouldn't surprise anyone who's read this blog to learn that Amir loved Weird Al. He loved parody songs (especially smart ones like Al's) and he relished Al's videos, which were hugely popular on MTV throughout the '80s. He loved "Like a Surgeon" and "Jeopardy" and especially "Eat It." As a super-creative kid, Amir even enjoyed writing his own parodies, which got more off-color as he got older, including a hormonal-teen version of The Beatles' "When I'm 64" called... ready for this?... "Will You Be My Whore?"* The co-writer of this inglorious ditty shall remain nameless unless he chooses to come forward and proclaim ownership.

Back to Weird Al. I've been hooked on Hit Parade and its host Chris Molanphy since the first episode I heard. It's likely I've written about this here before and likely will again, as I've yet to delve into the inspired episode on '80s New Wave. Molanphy is a musicologist bar none, though Amir could have proved a formidable challenger in the realm of music trivia. I know I've talked about our epic music trivia battles and wagers here more than once.

This particular episode of Hit Parade also dove into the deliciously weird world of Dr. Demento, another of Amir's favorites in his younger days. When we were kids, Dr. Demento hosted a weekly syndicated radio show that we often listened to just hanging out in Amir's room playing games or, on a few occasions, as a family in the car. Amir loved "Fish Heads" and "Sister Mary Elephant" and that weird song about L.A. that included a nod to the LaBrea Tar Pits - who remembers this?

But my favorite memory is Amir, Yael and I giggling our asses off to "Boot to the Head" and using that phrase whenever we were irritated with one another (e.g., "I'll give you a boot to the head if you don't let me use the bathroom!") or just teasingly (e.g., I specifically recall Amir once telling me, "You deserve a boot to the head for that outfit.")

Anyway, I'm not feeling particularly eloquent today, but I had to share my remembrances on a day that I should be spending with him physically and not only in my mind and heart. I celebrate him in spite of not being able to celebrate with him. Amir, we miss you so much. The holes in our hearts only grow larger each day we cannot be with you.

*Sample lyric: "Will you still ball me? Will you still call me? Will you be my whore?"

Good Times Come to Me Now

2020. Unfuckingbelievable. Another year without my beautiful brother, a brand-new decade he will not see. This never, never, never gets easier.

While on my usual walk home the other day, a random Amir moment crept up on me when this most random of songs popped into my head out of fucking nowhere:

This earworm launched me into an exceptionally clear flashback. The song was inescapable, in near-constant radio rotation, in 1983, when 7-year-old Amir was the ideal age to go bananas for such infectious shit. He may have owned the 45" or maybe he recorded it on a cassette off the radio (as we both did frequently). Either way, he couldn't get enough of it. I can still hear his sweet, high-pitched voice singing it in his room, probably mangling the lyrics but belting it out with an enthusiasm and energy reserved for little kids.

He fucking loved that silly song.

Another thing Amir loved was making lists, a diversion he inherited from me, his list-loving sister. This past weekend, I was thumbing through one of his spiral-bound notebooks, in which he'd recorded sports stats, scoring for Boggle games with friends, random to-do lists, notes to self, etc. Among the pages, I noticed two lists in particular that made my heart sink. One was a playlist of songs, labeled at the top with his nickname for me - likely a playlist he'd wanted to burn to CD for me or otherwise share with me. We had discussed a few of the songs before, but the others were unknown to me and I've now sought them out to add to my library, as he had evidently thought I'd appreciate them. (He was right.)

The other was a list of friends numbering about 10 or 11 and headed by my husband, Jason (who was Amir's friend long before they became brothers-in-law). Everyone was listed in a rather formal manner, by first and last name, including people who'd been his friends since childhood. They were separated into two groups. No family members made the list. 

So, I'm left to forever wonder... what the hell was this list? Amir was not one to send holiday cards or plan gatherings. Were they people he owed money to? People he wanted to get into touch with or re-establish contact with? People who'd borrowed his books or records and hadn't returned them? People who had been there for him in some meaningful way? People who he believed had wronged him somehow? And why two separate groupings?

We will never know. Never. Five years after Amir's death and I still cannot fucking accept the fact that I cannot call or email my brother with random questions. I can't call him to ask some silly bit of music trivia (he was better than Google, in many ways). I can't text him to tell him I just saw a guy on the subway who strangely resembled Bert from Sesame Street. I can't plan a visit with him or look forward to a family gathering with him at the table. The list is endless and it will never get shorter.

Five.

Five years. Five long, lonely, incredibly painful years without my darling brother. It does not seem possible that grief has gripped us for this long. It feels like yesterday I heard his voice and his laugh, drank in his smile, delighted in his wit and humor, enjoyed new music he recommended. Tonight, I will be on a plane to Brazil, thoughts and memories of Amir keeping me company for those long hours across dark skies. I wish so badly I could enjoy things fully and freely the way I once did, but it is still incredibly difficult to do so without him. 

My immediate family has not celebrated Thanksgiving since Amir's death and I don't know if we will again. I've made an effort to travel this week each year, often with Yael. In 2016, we celebrated Amir in Italy. Last year, we lit a candle in Prague. This year, we'll be together in Brazil. Traveling on such a painful anniversary is bittersweet and joyous and somewhat of a relief - it reminds me that I must continue to live and learn and explore new worlds and embark on adventures because Amir cannot. In many ways, I see travel and exploration as compulsory elements of my grief process.

Five unbearably long years without Amir. I continue to grieve for him every single day, but I am so grateful I have the freedom and opportunity to explore the world, a chance Amir never had in his short life. I love you and miss you tremendously every day, my darling brother.

November Rain

With our Grandma Lida in 2007

Bob Geldof wrote a song proclaiming August is "a heavy month." True, Sir Bob, but November is the heaviest month for me and my family. This month marks 5 years since our beloved Amir left us. I still have moments where the very fact that he is not here takes my breath away. I still do not believe it's possible that he is not with us, that the sun keeps rising, that our lives could possibly continue without my brother. How can they keep making Star Wars movies when he's not here? How can his favorite artists continue making music? How can Yael and I continue to exist as two instead of three? How has this new reality gone on for FIVE effing years? How have we survived it?

And yet, life goes on. That, I've learned, is one of the most painful elements of grief - the unending sorrow of being left behind to carry on when that's the last thing you want to do. I don't want to end my life but, more often that not, I resent and lament that I have to go on without him here.

Grief continues to sneak up on me like a sly cat. Hearing a random song in the grocery or drug store, smelling a certain brand of cigarette or laundry detergent, stumbling across a meme that would have Amir giggling, reading a news story about something from our childhood... all can stop me cold in my tracks, aching with remembrance.

For example, there's been extensive media coverage lately about the fall of the Berlin Wall, 30 years ago. It was my first year of college and I remember talking to Amir about how fucking bizarre it was that David Hasselhoff was performing there. Then, this week, in NPR's reporting on the anniversary, they interviewed a man who was 6 years old when the wall fell. I listened to him recall how, after watching Hoff's concert, he and his little friends had presumed that Hasselhoff himself was responsible for the wall coming down! I got a chuckle out of the story, but Amir would have found it utterly hilarious. The thought of Amir missing out on so many of life's little absurdities makes every memorable moment bittersweet. 

13-year-old Amir, with Dad

I'm also hearing a lot about the 50th anniversary of Sesame Street, the show that was so integral to our childhood. Oh, how the coverage takes me back! Even the voices of the muppets remind me of Amir, particularly Bert. Why did preschool-age Amir seem to feel such an affinity for Bert? Probably  his gentleness and wiseness. Even as a preschooler, Amir understood that, in many ways, Bert was the teacher and Ernie the student. Bert was the reasonable foil to Ernie's silliness, which, to be fair, Amir also got a kick out of. No one could ever say Amir wasn't silly - he thrived on it. I will never forget the sound of young Amir's high-pitched giggles at the antics of the muppets or Mel Brooks movies or so many other ridiculous things he loved. What would he make of the endless stream of absurdities the world is seeing now?

Fuck November.

"I'll never forget that phone call..."

25 years ago, I was living in L.A. when news broke of the brutal murders of O.J. Simpson's ex-wife Nicole and her friend Ron Goldman. In the weeks that followed, Ron and Nicole's families appeared in the media often, sharing their pain and their pleas for justice. I remember being particularly struck by Goldman's heartbroken father and by his sister, Kim, whose deep pain and anguish at losing her brother read so clearly on her face. She was my age and she was going through the worst pain I could have imagined in my life: losing a sibling. Two decades before I experienced her sorrow for myself, I truly ached for her.

Like so many others, I followed O.J.'s trial closely and was shocked when the jury acquitted him in spite of formidable evidence against him. I could not imagine the unspeakable toll that verdict took on Ron and Nicole's families. How could they bear the anguish of, first, losing their loved ones in such a horrifically violent way and, then, seeing their loved ones' killer walk free?

Years later, never having made sense of the injustice of the trial, my interest in the crime lies mostly in thinking about the families. So, when I learned that Kim Goldman had created a podcast about her family's loss, the trial and its aftermath, I was intrigued. Even before I'd lost my own brother, I'd felt a certain kinship with her because, any time she spoke of Ron, she described their incredible closeness and how few people could comprehend the immensity of her loss. Having enjoyed that same exceptional closeness with Amir, I could not fathom having him ripped from my life.

Goldman devotes the first episode of her podcast (Confronting: O.J. Simpson) to remembering her brother and sharing stories about his life. She speaks to friends about Ron and what he meant to them. She does what I've attempted to do with this blog for the past 4+ years: she invites anyone listening to understand the person her brother was, how he lived his life and how deeply missed he was.

It is extraordinarily difficult to convey how essential it is to me that people remember Amir. As the five-year mark of his death approaches, I may write less often, but it is no less important to me that he remains among us in our hearts and minds, in stories and writings and memories. I will continue to ask Amir's friends and family to share stories about him, be they short or long or seemingly inconsequential. I want to hear them ALL and put them on the record. I am persistently hungry for any tidbit about his life, any small glimpse into his mind, any delicious dollop of his humor. I treasure these morsels and hoard them in my memory as if they were the rarest of diamonds.

*This post's title comes from the first episode of Kim's podcast, in which she and her father relate the details of Ron's death. Her father, Fred, begins his remembrance by saying, "I'll never forget that phone call." Sadly, Fred, I know exactly how you feel.

Co-Conspirators

"My siblings were my first co-conspirators in the harvesting of my imagination." - Patti Smith

I fucking love this quote and I have for years. Not only were Amir and Yael my very first co-conspirators, they were the most present and persistent harvesters of my imagination and, for that, I'm eternally grateful. I could not have asked for two more exceptional co-conspirators, collaborators and friends.

April has begun, a month always difficult and bittersweet. Amir would have, should have, turned 43 on April 7. How I wish I could clearly visualize my brother at age 43. He was 38 when he died, still partially a child in my mature eyes. Would he always have seemed like a child to me, as his older sister? He will always be 38 - a fact that I will never be capable of grasping fully. The brutal unfairness of his absence still blows my doors off every fucking day.

And I don't believe in unfairness. I don't believe fairness is promised to anyone, anywhere. I have seen little reason to believe in karma. I don't believe people get what they deserve, be it good or bad. I believe that sometimes good, deserving people get dealt atrocious fucking blows in life while undeserving, garbage humans win at everything. Naturally, I don't believe it should be that way. That's the rational side of my brain speaking, the side that nearly always speaks the loudest.

Last night, I dreamed that my sister Yael and I were engaged to marry the Princes Harry and William. (I could not possibly hazard a guess as to why.) In this curious dream, we were in Buckingham Palace, sporting obscenely gigantic diamond rings and discussing wedding details with the princes. Amir was there, laughing his face off and snarking hard at the notion that his goofy sisters were to become princesses. He suggested Yael was excited about her royal bethrothing, while I dreaded being in the spotlight, forced to live in some cold, sterile castle, raising joyless potential heirs.

Even stranger is that Jason was there, asking me if I thought I'd be happier with Prince Harry than I was with him. (My response: "No fucking way.") Odder still is that Jason's family was there, including his deceased mother and stepfather, who congratulated me excitedly in spite of Jason's disapproval. Hours later, I am still furrowing my brow over what that shit was supposed to mean. No fever or drugs were involved in the conjuring of this bizarre scene.

Any time Amir or Jason visits me in a dream, I awaken disoriented and frustrated. When they occupy my mind during those hours I'm awake, it's because I invite and implore them to step to the forefront and to be present during my daily doings and musings. I suppose I subconsciously invite them into my nocturnal mind as well, longing to interact with them, to hear their voices, to be near them again, if only for a few precious minutes.

Amir would be turning 43 on Sunday. I will turn 48 this year, meaning I'll have had a full decade longer on this earth than my darling brother was granted. 10 years more of experiences, good and bad, of adventures and travels and laughter and hardship. 10 more years of life. How have I used those years to honor him? This question inspires and motivates so much of what I do and how I live. How am I honoring him? How am I honoring both of them?

Amir's iPod

Changing the calendar over to 2019, I realized this year will mark five years since Amir's death. Five fucking years of a deep heartache that never lets up and never will. As one friend puts it, grief gets "softer" but not easier. That will never change.

A year or so ago, Amir's girlfriend Joleen was kind enough to send me his iPod. Amir had owned an iPhone, but he preferred the old click-wheel iPod for cataloging his music. Once I could procure an old 30-pin USB cable to charge it, I eagerly scrolled through his music library, nodding familiarly at most of the artists, but surprised by some others and, subsequently, crestfallen that I wasn't aware he liked these particular artists because (a) I like them, too, and we could have discussed their merits; or (b) I'd never heard of them and wish he could have told me more about them; or (c) I wish he could have explained to me why certain songs were meaningful to him. Now I'll never know and that fucking sucks, to put it rather ineloquently.

Eventually, I turned over Amir's iPod to Yael so that she could pull his music and add it to her own. Soon after, she and I got to discussing Amir's music library--the oddities, the surprises, the memories. Nearly every song prompts some emotional response, be it nostalgia, sadness, amusement or a momentary tick of joy. We talked about his love for Queen and pondered what his reaction might have been to the film Bohemian Rhapsody. Yael reminded me how Amir pulled us into his room to spin A Night at the Opera, demanding our specific attention to this extraordinary song that blew his little-kid mind. (These days, I dread hearing it, partly because it is so overplayed, but also because I hear Amir's boyish voice singing "Gal-i-leeeoo!" and it just eviscerates me.)

Years ago, during a time when Amir had been going through a breakup, he and I talked nearly every day, sometimes very late into the night, until I physically could not stay awake any longer (at which time Jason often took over as his counselor in those post-midnight hours while I attempted sleep.)

During one late-night call, Amir and I were discussing the distinct soul-crush of listening to certain songs during a sad time. As Amir noted, putting music on "shuffle" mode during a time of heartbreak could be likened to playing Russian roulette. Exactly, I'd responded. We singled out our revered Elliott Smith, Lou Barlow and Jeff Tweedy as embodiments of songwriters who know precisely which heartstrings to tug until they howled. (I'm looking at you, Barlow - Amir and I concurred that "Soul and Fire" is a 4-minute machete to the chest.)

Four years after Amir's death, listening to music on shuffle mode still elicits an unending range of emotional reactions. (Even tedium like "Dust in the Wind" [not found on Amir's iPod, lest you admonish his musical taste] affects me in a way that stirs contempt.) Every time one of his favorite artists releases new work or announces a tour (or dies), my heart sinks into my stomach. He won't be here to experience it. He won't be here to discuss it with. He is missing out on so much and, as long as I remain breathing, that horrific fact will never cease to devastate me.

Four Years, Part Deux

Please read my last post (November 15) for context. Here are more excerpts of messages from Amir's coworkers as well as SAC members:

“Amir and I had a shared sarcasm and his sharp wit and biting sense will be greatly missed. We had joked together about what a (joyful) pain in the butt some of the players here could be. I’ll miss his smile and his voice on the phone. It breaks my heart knowing how much life he had left, but I know he had a positive impact on many.”

"Amir was a part of our community and now there is an empty spot that can't be filled. He never did convince me that baseball isn't the most boring sport ever, but he definitely tried his best."

"I have known Amir for the past year. He was great. He was my go-to guy for information and always an ear to talk to. We often talked about office politics, but he always said nice things. He always kept such an even keel and it seemed he couldn't be bothered by anything."

"I worked with Amir and had a chance to listen to some of his heartaches. He was really a sensitive man who loved and was loved much. I am glad I had the opportunity to meet him. He will be missed."

"I will miss Amir's kindness and sense of calm. A very good man who always interacted with quiet respect and touched our lives. He will be fondly remembered."

"I always enjoyed chatting with Amir. He was always patient with my questions. He struck me as a sweet, gentle person and I will deeply miss seeing him every week. SAC was a brighter place with him here."

"Amir was a good, lovely man. He always had a kind word."

"Amir was a sweet, always-helpful man. It was always reassuring to see him."

"Amir was a special person. I truly enjoyed his company and friendship. He was a good person."

"Amir was the best man to ever work at the tennis desk. I've known him personally for over four years. Amir meant a lot to me; we watched many Blazers games together and we would talk for hours. Amir will always be close to me and I'll never forget the person he was."

"Amir was a wonderful person. I used to chat with him a lot; he was very interesting and nice."

"I had the pleasure of training with Amir a few weeks ago. He was so helpful and patient and I really enjoyed getting to know him better. He had a great sense of humor, too. We will all miss him."

Indeed, we will and we do. Every day.

Four Years

Next week, November 22, will mark four years since the day our beloved Amir died. Some days, I still cannot believe he is not here and, on top of that disbelief is the disbelief that I'm still in disbelief. If you can't quite wrap your brain around that, imagine how senseless it seems in my own mind. I miss him terribly every fucking day and as I navigate this life without him, his absence reverberates in countless ways.

I'll be spending the 4th anniversary of Amir's death in Europe (Prague, this time). I am anticipating another bittersweet journey -- I'm excited and grateful to explore a new city and country, while I'm pained to recall how badly Amir wanted to see the world beyond his own and how heartbreaking it is that he never got the chance. He was robbed of so many other chances as well. (Of course, if I start enumerating all of those, I won't get around to what I'd intended to write here.)

As November 22 nears, I want to share the heartfelt and remarkably complimentary things people wrote about Amir immediately after he died. The health club where he worked for several years (SAC) held a well-attended memorial service, at which they circulated a guest book. I'm proud and humbled to share the wonderful tributes SAC's members wrote about Amir*. Some are lengthy, but I hope you will read them and, in doing so, expand and enhance your sense of who Amir was.

First, a note from his boss:
"Amir was an amazing person. He worked hard for me and the club. The members will miss him; they were his friends and SAC was his home. We will forever remember him. He always took care of us. I read an excerpt from Amir's writings. It was an amazing bit of literature that described himself and life. He will always be in my heart and mind and in the hearts and minds of everyone at SAC."

Notes from club members:
"SAC has been a better place because Amir brought a quality forward that is hard to find. A kind and honest spirit that everyone loved."

“He was indeed Amir (which means ‘rich’ in Hindi) – in his talk, dealings and helping others. He was one of my favorite friends at the tennis desk. May he continue to touch others.”

“[He was] a bright star and sharp wit and always so grateful.”

“Amir will be missed for his dependability, level-headedness, insightful thoughts and all. He was a pleasure to know.”

"Amir was a fine man and we really enjoyed talking to him. We were impressed with his maturity and integrity and we will miss him."

"Amir was a great friend. I loved discussing music with him. He was intense and cultured. We talked a lot. The last CD we discussed was Caetano Veloso and David Byrne at Carnegie Hall. He liked talking about his parents and how great they were. He pointed at the fact that mixing cultures was always a plus. I will miss his friendship. He is one we all liked."

"Amir was the kind of guy that took some effort to get to know, but that is what was delightful about him. Through our conversations, I discovered that Amir had lots of layers. One was his dry sense of humor. We were forever teasing one another and he seemed to be always having the last laugh, so quick and witty. We talked of sports, his love of writing, politics and religion. I learned through our conversations how important family was to him. He told me once his guidelines for dating and the one that stood out was that she had to have a good relationship with her family. This was a true example of his kind spirit, unselfishness and soundness of character. There was so much more to Amir than people realized that was hidden because of his quiet nature. But his compassion for life, honesty and strong principles soon became clear as you got to know him. Amir positively affected other people and brought such joy to our lives."

“I always enjoyed chatting with you and discussing basketball. I remember you as a very kind and cheerful person.”

“I will miss our chats. I will miss your dry sense of humor. I will miss your patience with us members.”

“You were my secret friend. You helped me through the darkest period of my life, simply by being you. For months, I would come to string racquets, just to have something to do other than obsess about my circumstance. I was always glad when you were here. Even our long periods of quiet in that small room were never uncomfortable. I knew we could pick up a conversation where we left off any time. You got the play by play. You knew my secrets. You were wise, tolerant, patient. I truly treasure that time spent with you. You weren’t perfect. You had flaws like we all do. But you were the perfect person at the perfect place at the perfect time – for me. I will miss you, secret friend.”

*These comprise only a small selection of the tributes in the guest book. Please stay tuned... I look forward to posting more soon.

"Found Treasure"

I have not posted anything in several months, as I've been doing more private writing lately, leaving me with 5-6 drafts I want to post here eventually. Nearly four years after his death, I am still adding to my collection of notable tidbits to share with those of you who knew Amir and savored his unique wit and sense of humor.

Another Labor Day has come and gone, a holiday that each year prompts me to reflect on my most recent time spent with Amir. Labor Day weekend 2014 was the last time I would ever see my sweet brother. We created some great memories that weekend, talking, drinking, taking long walks and relaxing with our parents. Fortunately, we had the chance to spend a few precious hours talking alone, during which we covered some important ground. I will always be grateful to have had that time together.

At the close of our lovely weekend together, I hugged Amir goodbye at the airport and watched him walk away from me, his tall, lanky, backpacked frame breezing through the automatic doors and disappearing into the terminal.

"Terminal" seems a sadly appropriate word now, doesn't it?

A few weeks ago, Amir's friend Ian sent me an email he titled "Found Treasure," in which he excitedly reported his recent discovery of some ink drawings Amir had created when he was 18. Fittingly, Ian labeled the series "Human League Hangman," which I imagine Amir would find entirely appropriate. After all, I can't think of any subject Amir would have been more inclined to designate for a round of hangman than "Musical band."

Upon opening Ian's email and checking out the photos, the first thought that occurred to me (as I smiled) was that I'd fucking forgotten Amir could draw so well.

How the fuck could I have failed to remember this one of his many talents? I need to search my own archives for more of these priceless objets d'art!

"Signed original!" Ian exclaimed in the email, declaring Amir's drawings among his most treasured possessions. And now they are among mine, as well.



Post-script: In spite of its user-friendliness, Blogger doesn't provide many options for tweaking the page layout so that photos appear the way you want them to. So be it.

April 7

April 7 was Amir's birthday. I wrote this piece at the time but decided to keep it to myself for a while.
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My dearest brother, today, you SHOULD be 42. But you are not here to turn 42. That fact never gets easier to believe or write or say or think. The shocking sadness of that first year or two has subsided into a dull, relentless ache that sits on my chest and doesn't demand much in the way of grief. Sometimes it feels as though it will never truly sink in for me that you are not here. How is it possible? Fuck, you'd be so disappointed in yourself and the universe for letting you slip away so young and sharp and full of countless items left to check off your ever-growing "To Do" list. Like me, you'd feel fucking cheated and indignant at the world for stealing so many years from you.

The other night, I began thinking about how many regrets you'd have had you known your life would be cut short. I've thought a great deal about regret over the years and I have always tried to live my life such that, when my end comes, I have precious few true regrets about how I lived, loved, learned and treated other people. Still, as much as I've thought about regret in my life, I've never considered it more than I have since you died. What regrets did you have? What would you have changed, in haste, if you'd known your days were numbered? What would you have told me? What would you have written down or recorded for those of us who love you to find?

One thing that brings me peace in thinking of you is how proud and happy you were to have been able to be a confidante and counselor to me over the last year of your life. After years of frequent leaning on Yael and me for guidance and support, you had entered a period of stability and maturity in your life that allowed you to be there for us -- a welcome flip of the playbook, as you put it. You talked with me for hours, offering advice and support, and I know you felt proud that your guidance was trusted and helpful. Just two months before you died, the last time I saw you, you confided in me about some issues that had arisen in your life. In retrospect, I realize you may have admitted these things to me in the hopes that I could help or guide you, though I don't know if you'd have accepted help. I don't know if you actually needed help, nor whether you'd have realized it if you did. You wanted my advice about your girlfriend and your job, throwing in a confession about your having recently "dabbled" in some pills to help with your anxiety. You told me it was a minor sidestep off your chosen "clean" path and that you weren't willing to jeopardize your health, job or relationships to fall back into the inviting haze of self-medication, however much it beckoned you.

Amir, you were one of the most intelligent, funniest, brightest, sharpest human beings I have ever known. Those things mean nothing when it comes to susceptibility to anxiety, self-doubt, unease, overthinking and self-medicating. In fact, your brilliant mind and unique outlook on the world likely contributed to your inability to quiet the racing thoughts in your head when you needed to. Why isn't that a skill taught in school? Wouldn't the ability to quiet your mind and its relentlessly-swirling chatter be more valuable in terms of life skills than fucking algebra or chemistry? Why not teach children and teens the much-needed skill of calming their anxiety via meditation or journal-writing or deep breathing or even exercise? As someone who often falls victim to racing thoughts and endless brain chatter, I'd certainly have benefited from training in self-calming methods that don't rely on drugs or alcohol. I would wager there are few people who wouldn't benefit from such training.

Yet, there's still a horrible stigma around mental-health issues, no matter how slight, including the common misconception that it's a personality or character flaw. I have decided I need to make an effort to help people suffering from mental illness or addiction in any way I can. You'd be intrigued by my occasional toying with the idea of becoming a therapist or counselor, but you'd also relate to my uncertainty and agree that it may not be the best path for me. You would also likely support my longing to help people in other, smaller capacities, which I'm focusing on now. I have a unique and rich perspective on relating to people struggling with mental-health issues, including addiction. I can empathize with their battles and I believe that empathy, along with compassion, will get me farther than years of schooling and training to be a certified counselor. I know you would encourage me and support me in my efforts, limited as they are for now.

Back to you, brother. It's your birthday today and you should be here. You are so terribly missed. You might not have believed it had you known just how many people miss your presence in this world. Your absence is voluble every single day. I often wonder what words of wisdom you would impart to me? How would you guide me? What hilarious emails and texts would you send me daily to keep me laughing? How would you be celebrating your birthday? How much contempt and scorn would you muster for the absurdity of our political landscape?

On your birthday, I will listen to music you loved, read things that spoke to you or made you laugh, talk about you and celebrate you, as I do on so many days that are not April 7.

The Lunatic Lumberjack

A few weeks ago, I shared excerpts of some letters Amir had written his good friend Patrick in the late '90s, when he was 22. I've started a few other blog posts since then but nothing I'm ready to share just yet. In lieu of something new, here is a further amusing glimpse into Amir's mind, courtesy of his own detailed writings to a friend:

October 1998:

To the normal observer, Arcata [CA] seems to provide little food for thought. That is to say that it seems like a slow, ordinary, uneventful town. But Arcata's true eccentricities lie below its dank-nug, lumber-lined surface. There's an underlying text to McKinley's domain.

I'm sure you remember our friend who runs Hutchin's Liquor Store. Up until recently, I still held him in high esteem for the fact that he was the "strangest" guy in Arcata. Well, he's not. In fact, he's not even the strangest liquor store clerk in Arcata. I live downtown now, so my local beer supplier is Arcata Liquors, on the plaza. Every night when I go in, I am treated to the presence of the shifty, angry mountain man behind the counter. This is a big bearded man, with exploding pectorals and a neck the size of a small house. He's got narrow, threatening eyes and sometimes breathes heavily through his nostrils as if he were a wild boar.

Most of time, all you can get from him is an indifferent "How's it going?" or other empty salutation. He just sits back there, arms folded, looking like he's about to tear the world a new asshole. Sometimes, however, he's Mr. Joe Social and talks up a fucking storm to anybody who walks in. I think he's on coke, or maybe speed, when I see him act like this. He'll be pacing around, babbling to customers about bourbon, hunting elk, and how if one more damn hippie pays him for beer with pennies, he's going to declare war on this whole tie-dye clad group once and for all. Clearly, this man has a bone to pick, an axe to grind.

One night, I walked in... all I wanted was a bottle of vodka and some O.J. Well, the lumberjack probably just snorted a line out back because he was totally revved up and I could have sworn I saw veins popping out of his neck and his face was all flushed and he was doing that whole nostril-breathing thing again. I asked him how much for a 375ml bottle of Smirnoff and he proceeds to go on a tangent about vodka and the difference between brands. So I humor him for a moment: "Which one do you like best?" I ask.

Before I know it, he's got 4 or 5 bottles out on the counter and he's extolling the virtues of each one. "The Smirnoff is good," he says. "But Sky vodka is the cleanest."

"Really?" I mumble.

"Fuck yeah," he says, getting excited now. "Shit, man, last weekend some buddies and me were shooting birds down at the marsh and I got so fucked up on that shit that I almost had to crawl home on my hands and knees."

"Sounds like good shit," says I.

"You bet your ass it's good shit. Turned that marsh into Bosnia for a while, if you know what I mean." I didn't, and I was scared to ask.

[A few days later], I paid another visit to the aforementioned liquor store. This time, I was in line behind a gutter-punk street guy who asks of the lumberjack, "What's a good warm drink for a cold night like this?"

"Cyanide," the lunatic answers. Then, he looks at me, laughs (because I was chuckling at his recommendation) and rings me up.

On the Outside of Normalcy

2018 is upon us and still I struggle to accept that my brother is not here. The complexity of grief can be distilled into a simple fact: I miss him every day. There's always something I wish I could share with him, something he would find uproariously funny, something he would guide me through. Just last night, I watched a movie taking place in 1995 that featured a song Amir had introduced me to (and, as a side note, was not actually released until 1996, making it misused in the film). Sigh.

A few weeks ago, Amir's close friend Patrick Crawford sent me copies of a handful of letters Amir wrote to him in the late '90s, when they were in their early 20s. The letters are hilarious and dripping with Amir's typical flavor of sarcasm, angst, wild descriptions and intense cerebral navel-gazing. With Patrick's permission, I'd like to share some excerpts that offer a particularly deep dive into Amir's mind.

First, an intro from Patrick:

Your brother and I were frustrated writers...we emulated the Beat correspondence of the 1950's as pen pals in the late 1990's.
I sent him 4 letters and he responded with 4 letters.
I have those four letters and they are awesome.
I have cherished these letters for years because they are so honest and real and just really funny and a snap shot of the times.
They are also dark and dry and talk of depression, drugs, and loneliness.
These are personal letters only meant for me to read. However, I really feel you need to read them because they will give you another glimpse at his fantastic brain and sense of humor.

Amir's letter to Patrick, October 1998:

Now and then, I'll strum the guitar, jot down some lines, or have a sick silly time getting drunk with Berman and Levy and these activities are my respite from dull reality. My love life is in a state of quiet desperation as all of the wistful eyes those college girls turn to me soon look away, and my reaction is usually to laugh and say something cynical and mocking to myself to try to dull the wound. But the fact is, loneliness only comes in short spurts for me--most of the time I'm content to be absorbed in music and books and gratified by wordy exchanges with fellow slackers.

Yes, it's good to be on the outside of normalcy. Respectable life is far too sterile. I bring this up to you because you and I are educational misfits... we are self-taught stylists and the more we cultivate our own art, the more artistic it becomes as all great art (grand statement) is the result of individuality.

I've just completed a long day of work and am relishing the silence of solitude... One thing I can say about the last few months is that I've become real chummy with our dreaded friend loneliness. Solitary living has become an uncomfortable reality. When I'm not at work, I spend all my time reading and writing. I've actually become quite diligent in my writing practice. It's really the only thing that keeps me sane. But I do love good novels, and lately I've been devouring one book after another, sometimes reading all night long.

Some recent favorites include: Rand - The Fountainhead; Hemingway - A Farewell to Arms; Steinbeck - Grapes of Wrath and East of Eden; Kerouac - Vanity of Duluoz; Kesey - Sometimes a Great Notion; Wolfe - Short Stories. I am truly addicted to the written word, almost to a fault. It's gotten so that I almost substitute the fantasy world of novels for real-life experience.

"Addicted to the written word"... there's an addiction I have shared with Amir since we were kids. It's an addiction we talked about for hours at a time, one we shared with Yael and one I'm proud to have retained over the years. My life would be sorely lacking without it.

But it's Amir's line about being "on the outside of normalcy" that I carefully ingested and, holy mother of shit, do I relate to it. In myriad, infinite ways. Since I was very young, I could recognize the feeling that I existed somewhere on the edge of what others perceived as normal or typical. I never felt completely at ease with other kids, apart from Amir. Even at a young age, I could sense that he shared my feelings of not quite belonging; of being fascinated by geeky things like maps and encyclopedias and astronomy; of being an inveterate introvert in a world of extroverts.

I agree that, the majority of the time, it IS good to be on the outside of normalcy. I welcome it. However, Amir and I talked occasionally about how much easier and less anxiety-filled our lives would be if we could experience life inside that boundary of normalcy, if only temporarily. But we agreed we wouldn't be happy existing in that sphere for long. I have always believed that, in spite of its pitfalls, the outside of normalcy is a far more interesting place to dwell. I like it here.

The superb Joan Didion once said: "I am a woman who for some time now has felt radically separated from most of the ideas that seem to interest other people." I relate to this in every way possible, knowing too well that strange longing to connect with what I imagined (and have learned) were a precious few others in the world who felt similarly. Amir was one of them. And how fucking lucky does that make me to have had him as a brother?

More letters to Patrick at a later date. For now, here's to a happy 2018. xo