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There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Saturday, December 25, 2004


I hate Delta airlines for minimizing my return to Chicago. Four hours late, arriving at 3 a.m. instead of 11 p.m. turns a triumphant return into a desire for bed—anywhere, it doesn’t matter, just sleep.

So my first encounter with the city was Christmas morning, driving into my sister’s; and the sight of the skyline made me cry. I felt like a part of me had been missing, and I didn’t realize it until I found it again.

That’s what it was like being around my family again, too. My parents and sister, and then later my aunts and uncles, cousins and grandmother. Only this time it wasn’t an ache in my chest to remind me of what I had missed, but a huge envelopment of warmth, like a hug that went on for 6 hours, until we had to beg off for tiredness, pack presents and cookie tins in the car, and drive home, digesting family time the whole way. Tim has never been around a family like ours, and it’s overwhelming, but I don’t know it any other way. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

(My aunt gave us a star ornament that had two pictures of my cousin on it. I think the way she survives, the way she remembers him, is to keep him a part of her life every single moment. Which is hard for me, because it’s difficult to remember without guilt someone I didn’t particularly like until his death, at which point I realized I did love him.)


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