Ed and I grew up eating Gordo’s burritos here in the Richmond District of San Francisco. Whenever my mom didn’t want to cook because she was too tired, or she just wanted to give us a treat, she’d get both of us burritos from Gordo’s just down the block. They’d almost always be the grilled chicken burritos stuffed with pinto beans, their delicious reddish-orange rice, pico de gallo, a little hot sauce, and some cheese.

When I got to high school and became a little more mobile, I started exploring the Mission district and realized how good the burritos were there. Obviously now, these burritos are famous in this part of town, so famous that people actually refer to them as “Mission burritos.” At some point, I told Ed about the burritos and how good they were and that we should go together, and he exclaimed, “You want me to go all the way to the Mission to get a burrito?! But I can just go to Gordo’s, and it’s just fine!”

It would have been easier if we were allowed to drive together, as driving to the Mission is far easier than taking the dreaded MUNI from the Richmond, but I think he would have really liked the burritos we had at Taqueria San Jose tonight. This just another one of the million things we never did and will never do together.

Chris’s brother came down from Toronto to spend the long holiday weekend with us tonight. We picked him up at the airport this evening, and on our way back from SFO to the Richmond District, I thought about what it would’ve been like if Ed were still here. We’d have a packed house with six of us in total, and we wouldn’t even have enough space for everyone in the Camry. Ed and I would be sleeping in our own beds while Chris and Ben would sleep on the two sofas in the living room, one more comfortable than the other since one is far bigger than the other. Ed would ask Ben random questions about living in Canada and Australia and make an exclamation here and there about how brave Ben was for moving all the way from Australia to Canada to live. He’d also ask slightly annoying stereotypical questions about what “Australians” are probably like to see Ben’s take on it, especially since Ben’s accent is stronger than Chris’s. I would probably snap at Ed for asking such dumb questions so much… Because I guess that’s just what I used to do to him sometimes. I am his sister, after all. You can’t be a sibling and be nice all the time. Whether it would be at In N Out or some Mission burrito spot, I’m pretty sure Ed would win the award for the fastest eater. He’d also be the first one done with any activity, whether it was walking through Alcatraz’s prison cells or climbing up Lombard Street. I’m sure it would have been a bit awkward, but then again, everything that involves my family is at least a little awkward.

It would have been a happy day to have my brother meet my future brother-in-law. My brother knows he’d never be replaced, but he’d have someone else that he knew I could rely on. It’s a painful thing to think about what could have been, but unfortunately what will never be.

My uncle took me out for dinner tonight, and over Japanese food, we talked about the recent earthquake in the Bay Area this past week and the last big earthquake that hit us in 1989. I was just three, and somehow, I’m still able to remember it. I was at home with Ed, who was 10 then, and suddenly the entire house starts shaking wildly. I didn’t realize it was an earthquake, nor was I probably aware at the time what an “earthquake” actually was. When my dad used to come home from work in the evenings in those days, he’d always pick me up and place me on his shoulders, so it was like a fun, bumpy ride to me as he’d run through the house with me hanging on. When the shaking started, I naively thought it was just my dad shaking the house, so I ran to the window to see if he was down at the street moving the house. Ed yelled at me to get away from the windows as the shaking and rolling continued. He ran over, grabbed me, and pulled me underneath the dining room table and had me cover my head with my hands and crouch down.

It’s a vivid memory in my mind even 25 years later. It’s one of those very first memories I have of my brother being protective over me and trying to ensure my safety. I told this story to my uncle tonight and felt my stomach turning as the words came out of my mouth. I can share this memory now with him or a friend or even a stranger, but I’ll never be able to relive this memory with Ed ever again. It’s always the little things that make me feel the worst.

I came back home to San Francisco today, and after having lunch at home with my parents, we went to visit Ed at the Columbarium. I found out that my dad had picked a fight with my mom yesterday because he wanted to visit Ed on his birthday, but she refused and insisted that they should wait until today so I could join them. He didn’t think it was right and said Ed should be able to see them on his birthday. It’s the little things my dad does now that make me really sad; it’s like he is trying in his own small ways to try to make things right to make up for all the time when Ed was alive… when things were all wrong.

The Columbarium finally added Ed’s name to the search directory. When I had visited last February, his name still hadn’t been put into the system, and my parents told the director that it should have been added ages ago. Last month, they added in his name.. but instead of reading “Wong, Edward,” it read “Wong, Edwin.” My parents had to fill out a form to get this corrected (apparently because having his death certificate on record with his actual name was not enough).

The prompt says, “Type in the first three letters of the LAST name.” I typed in “WON” and hit “Search.” The results listed many Wongs… and there he was:

Wong, Edward

Born: 8/26/1979 — Died: 7/22/2013

Below this information, the screen shows what hall and floor he is on, as well as the section and niche number. I didn’t realize that there were numbers on each niche.

I stared at this screen for a long time and felt numb. The screen became a bit of a blur as my eyes watered. I couldn’t take my eyes off the Born/Died line. Why does it look so terrible? He was born in 1979 and died in 2013? Why can’t it say…Born: 8/26/1979 — Died: ________. Some of the directories are like this because of the reserved niche spaces. His unfortunately is not reserved; it’s occupied. This is real. His death is real. Even when I don’t want to admit it, he’s really dead and out of my reach. One year and five weeks later, it’s still not completely real to me.

Last night, Chris took us to a show at the Flea Theater downtown called “Smoke,” which is about a guy and a girl who both have twisted ideas for what turns them on. The girl loves to be tortured, while the guy loves to use knives… during sex. So this show ultimately culminated in some odd dreams for me last night. In the most vivid dream, I am sitting on a chair in the middle of my parents’ living room, which is actually empty except for the chair, and Ed has a small but very sharp knife in his hands. I am wearing a cropped top and have my midriff exposed, and as I am sitting there plainly, Ed is carving different letters of the alphabet across my torso. I am bleeding from the cuts, but I feel nothing.