June 5, 2006

My Dearest Love,

Things have settled down a little since my last letter. Sunday night we actually had just a family dinner; just the three of us. Kate and I had spent all day at her teen driving clinic (more on that in a sec) and arrived home hot, tired, and dirty; aching for showers. So dinner was simple – thawed burger made into patties and grilled. There were some potato chips as well (I know, I know – not good nutrition, but it got us by). The evening was lovely as we sat on the screen porch and enjoyed each others company. It was the first time we tried out our new threesome. I was nervous.

Now, about the driving clinic. Things started kind of dicey. You know Kate when she has to give up a “sleep-in” day. She was pretty grouchy and was uncommonly rough driving my car as we made our way down to the far southern reaches of the east metro area. Guess who we saw as we drove in? Our neighbors from across the street. Kelly and Joe were there and engaged us in conversation right off the bat, thereby dispelling any sense of arriving at a strange place and having to “fit in.”

Kate and I were separated immediately as she went into the first classroom session and I went out to the track with the rest of the helpers to set up cones and learn our respective responsibilities for the day. The weather was partly cloudy and warm to start and getting fully sunny and hot as the day progressed. I slathered on the sun block a couple of times but still managed to miss an arc around the left side of my lower neck.

I was gratified to see that by the time the young drivers and their instructors were in the cars and moving that smiles started to replace the frowns on Kate’s face. She started pretty hesitantly, but it was not long before she was tossing that old white pig around like a veteran. She really had a good time before the day was done, but of course you probably know that, where ever you are.

Today, I made myself a long list of things to do. Among them was the task of picking you (or what is left of you) up from the funeral home. You were surprisingly heavy in your little cardboard box. The funeral home also laundered your T-shirt, which I thought was a nice touch, though they did not use a detergent that you would approve of.

Did you know that it cost as much to run your obituary notices in the three papers as it did to turn you into grit? We ran the obits in the two metro papers and one up north over the weekend. We used the one you drafted as well as the picture you picked out. I added a little in the middle as you requested. It was very tasteful and understated as you would have wished.

That may change tomorrow however. I received a call from a reporter working with the eastern metro paper who was putting together an extended obit on you. Seems that you made a bigger splash than you planned in the city of your choosing. I’ll save you a copy.

Oh – it finally arrived – the lasagna. You may not remember a week ago last Saturday, you were busy trying to die, but the neighbors across the street (not the nice ones, but the ones just up the road) started some kind of hideously loud machinery at 6:30 in the morning. I remember. I wanted to kill them – or worse.

Well, today, they arrived on our doorstep with a large basket containing a pan of lasagna, a plastic tube of industrial factory garlic bread, and a caeser salad. They even brought their son, a nice looking boy who looked as though he was having hot oil poured down the back of his pants as his parents stood there saying impossibly sincere bullshit about a person they never met.

Throughout it all, I remained pleasant. I did not bash them with the basket as I wished. I did not roll my eyes when they oozed their smarminess. I did not order them off our property for being the biggest assholes I have come across in some time. I was nice and said little. I took their basket inside and threw away everything but the salad. That I put in the refrigerator. Maybe I’ll throw it away tomorrow.

I will close now. I miss you, but I don’t miss the sick part.

With all my love,

P.