I always wanted Ed to travel more. We never traveled growing up since our parents were very frugal, and the farthest we had ever gone with all four of us was southern California – the main reason was to visit Disneyland in Anaheim. I was 5, and Ed was 12.

I tried to get him to come to New York to visit me last year and said I’d pay for his airfare. He had come the year before for our cousin’s wedding, but it wasn’t that enjoyable for him since my mother and I were arguing the whole time, and he never enjoys himself as much when our parents are around. I wanted him to come with just himself, and I was planning on taking a few days off to show him around the city and convince him that New York wasn’t as dirty and disgusting as he thought it was.

I wanted us to take a trip together for a long weekend – we’d explore a city somewhere in the U.S. together, and I’d get him out of his comfort zone that is the overcast and gray depression of San Francisco.

I often envisioned Chris and I having a destination wedding on an island somewhere, and I would tell my brother not to worry about the expenses because I’d take care of everything for him. As long as he was there to experience it all with me, that would be the only thing that mattered. I wanted Ed to travel the world, and I wanted to take care of him and all his worries. Money wouldn’t matter.

He isn’t physically with us anymore, and I’m still angry about it. But he will continue to experience life through us, through our Bart Simpson. He’s coming with us on his first trip across the northern border tomorrow to visit Ben. Ed’s finally going to Canada, and I’m taking him.