November 20th, 2004

Dear Paul,

Happy birthday. Mom died last night. I hope I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about that in person, so it’s not a shock when you read this, but it’s on my mind right now and I’ve got to say it. The house is completely quiet and empty. Meg is upstairs in her room–she’s pregnant, very big right now, and we’re not letting her do anything but lie in bed and cry. Nick and Julia went out, I don’t know where, and Sam is away making the funeral arrangements. You don’t know Sam, but I hope you will soon.

I’m sitting here and I have nothing to do for the first time in three years. Any other day, at this time, I’d be reading Mom a poem. She likes In Memoriam best; I’ve read it all the way through to her at least twenty times. I’ve been reading The Waste Land a lot myself. It reminds me of you. Everybody else in the family tries not to do or say things that remind them of you, and I can’t really blame them for that. I’ve written you a dozen letters before, but I always burn them, because Mom would fall apart if she saw them. But there’s no reason to do that any more. I want you to really read this one, and I’m going to keep it with me wherever I go.

I say “wherever I go” because I’ll be leaving here soon. With Mom gone there’s no reason for me to stay, and without sounding melodramatic, I really can’t stand this any longer. I’ll wait till after Meg’s had the baby; that way she’ll have a new youngest to worry about, and she won’t be tempted to come after me. So, it’ll be another month or two, but I’m leaving soon. I’m going to find Gaby first, and then I’m coming after you. That’s a promise.

Happy birthday, big brother. I’m sorry for whatever has been happening to you these last three years. I’m sorry you’ll never get to hug Mom again. But it’s all over, and from now on, we’re all going to get better.

Love,

Will