It must be my subconscious slowly building its anxiety level, greatly anticipating when I will be back at my parents’ house in San Francisco. That bleak place with an odd, eerie chill and a damp, musty vibe rarely has a positive effect on anyone.

I woke up this morning from an annoying dream. It could be characterized as “bad,” but it’s more annoying because it really encompasses, to me, how frustrating my family can be. I’m here in New York and suddenly my mom calls, and all she says is, “Did you hear that Ed died?”

First of all, assuming that Ed were actually still around, why the hell would anyone ever so casually ask you if you “heard” that your own brother DIED? There is something so wrong about that that I cannot even put it into words. Death is not casual. It is especially not casual when it is the death of an immediate family member.

It is really insane to think that nearly eight years ago, my brother died. Tomorrow will mark eight years since his funeral, since the day I stood up at a podium and gave a eulogy for him that I never wanted to write, a eulogy that gave subtle but pretty obvious hints at what he died from. When I think of going home, I am always reminded first and foremost that he is gone and that I will never see him ever again.