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.

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.

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?"

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?

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.

Another Birthday

Our Amir should be 41 today. This whole week has been difficult and I wonder if I should just hibernate the first week of April every year? Sigh... I still have so much trouble with the sad fact that it just does not get easier. In fact, at times it feels more difficult and heavy now than it did two years ago. The more time goes by, the longer he's not here, the more lost I feel without him.

Two of his favorite bands released new albums recently (Spoon, a few weeks ago, and The New Pornographers, TODAY) and fuck if he wouldn't love them. He turned me on to Spoon years ago and would be thrilled at how much I like their new album. I'm so shredded that I can't talk to him about it. And he was so crazy about Neko Case and TNP... he'd surely be raving about that album, too.

That's really the thing about grief. Of course, we all feel destroyed that Amir's life was cut short, that he didn't get to accomplish so much of what he wanted to, that he didn't deserve to die. And of course, we all miss him in different ways at various times and constantly. But the hardest part is just the longing to have one more conversation, one more late-night phone marathon, one more hug. The constant longing to simply hear his voice and his laugh. The longing to hear his opinion on something mundane like a movie or album or on something important like what's happening in the world.

A few weeks ago, my family celebrated my cousin Arik's wedding in Mexico. The joy and love and happiness was so full and tangible... we all love Courtenay and were so thrilled to be there together to celebrate their love. And yet, for me, Amir's absence loomed so large and heavy and painful. I hate that my longing for him diminishes every family gathering, but how could it not? He should have been there. He should have been part of the celebration. HE SHOULD BE HERE WITH US NOW. That feeling will NEVER change.

I don't believe in mediums or seances or things of that nature, though I put aside my skepticism when friends or family who are grieving decide to try it. Who am I to tell them I think it's bullshit? If it gives them comfort, I fully support it. Even though I'm skeptical, I must admit I'm curious and I can understand their reasoning--it comes from something I do understand: the overwhelming longing to have some connection with our lost loved ones. What I wouldn't give to tell Amir we all love him and miss him and to hear he's at peace. If I had any real indication that a medium could offer me that, I'd try it. Skepticism goes out the window when grief takes over.

Anyway, I've gone off on several tangents--it's because I haven't written in a while and I'm overflowing with thoughts... I just miss Amir so much. Not only on his birthday but every single fucking day, my thoughts are never far from him for more than minutes at a time.

Another Birthday

40 years ago today, Yael and I got the wonderful gift of a baby brother. And our little worlds changed forever and for the better.

Our beautiful Amir would have, SHOULD have, turned 40 today. The mere thought of him not reaching 40 makes my heart physically hurt. It aches. He should be here, we should be celebrating with him, he should be following Yael and I into a new decade, with all of its ups and downs. He should have reached middle age. Hell, he should have lived to be an old man, still pondering the meaning of everything, reading every book in sight, making us laugh and offering sarcastic, witty pearls of wisdom only Amir could have offered.

Summer 2005

I remain utterly heartbroken that he's not here, that we've been deprived of his gentle presence in this world. I'm angry that he was cheated out of so many years. I miss him so much that I want to scream to the heavens to reverse history and bring him back. I revisit history in my mind every day and night, thinking about his 38 years on Earth, what they meant to everyone who loved him and how important that time was to me--the time I had a brother who was also a playmate, a sounding board, an encyclopedia, a books-and-music recommender and, most importantly, a trusted friend and confidant and amateur psychoanalyst.

Today, I am pondering and longing for Amir at 40--who he might have been, where he'd have been in his life and who he'd have been working toward becoming. I will do my best to celebrate and honor him today, as I do in smaller ways each day. I encourage all of you to celebrate him in your own way today.

Amir, I wish I could tell you how much we love you and miss you, today and every day.

Birthday Boy, Part 2

On Amir's birthday last week, his girlfriend Joleen sent me an email describing how she planned to celebrate him. Reading it soothed me on a difficult day and I've been meaning to share it:

"Last night, before I went to sleep I talked to Amir for a while. I shared memories and told him about what I was going to do today and then I started talking about stupid shit, just like I used to with him and he'd listen and give advice.

7 am this morning I went to Kornblatt's for breakfast and got the eggs benedict (on a bagel, with salami not ham). This was Amir's favorite Jewish deli. He also liked Kenny & Zukes for their chicken matzo ball soup and bagel dogs, which are beef hotdogs baked in bagels, similar to pigs in a blanket.

Last year, we went to Kornblatt's on Sunday. This morning, I sat there all alone for almost an hour reading the paper and trying not to devour my breakfast too fast. I was trying to do it like Amir. He always took his time and we could easily spend over an hour eating.

[Later], I plan to walk over to the Hollywood District and go to the vintage mall. We discovered it back in August/September one Saturday. Neither of us had ever been in it but all we had was time that day so we went in and ended up being there for 2 hours. It's an IKEA style vintage store. IKEA, in that it has tons of rooms and corners all decorated, but with all this old shit. You can't help but touch and look at everything. We separated at one point and ran into each other an hour later. He said 'This place never ends, you turn a corner and it just goes on and on.'

We couldn't get over how awesome this place is. So, I'm going there next! For lunch, I think I'll go to Ole Ole for a steak quesadilla. We went there on our third date. He loved that place. He loved quesadillas a lot."

Pretend it's a grilled cheese

I told Joleen how much her email had made me smile, thinking of Amir taking an hour to finish a meal, often reading the newspaper while he slowly chewed and contemplated every fucking thing. He was always the last person at the table to finish his food, typically lingering for hours in a restaurant, rarely skipping dessert. 

Also, I have no doubt that Amir's undying love for quesadillas was inevitable given his childhood obsession with American cheese slices and, later, grilled cheese sandwiches. Grilled cheese was his first love (after his sisters, of course). You could have thrown that kid into a tub full of thumbtacks and he would have been just fine, so long as he had a grilled cheese.

Birthday Boy

Amir would have (should have!) turned 39 today.​ I'm heartbroken that he's not here to receive my card or my call. He is so very missed. It's raining and grey and gloomy here in New York, which is apropos of how I'm feeling and yet it makes me smile because Amir loved rain.

When he turned five, Amir had a birthday party at Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor, complete with an R2-D2 cake. There's a smile for ya!

I hope all of you who knew him and loved will think of him and remember him today by listening to a song he loved or doing something he enjoyed doing or spending some quiet time with a special memory of him. You can laugh or you can cry. Just remember him fondly and raise a glass, if you're so inclined.

xo