I remember grilled velveta and onion sandwiches, fried on the stove top in real butter with a cold beer. I remember tasting my first northwest beer, a Redhook, and searching out the last cases of Winterhook in Albuquerque, around February-- and celebrating when we found one in March. I remember Kyndal waiting while I said my goodbyes so he could chase my car as it passed by his yard. I remember too many dinners at Ortegas, the Range, or whatever restaurant had taken and held your fancy at any given time. I remember birthday dinners with Grandma. I remember massage appointments that lasted hours past their end time, well into the night. I remember Harry Nilsson tapes and Monty Python "Best of" sketches. I remember journeying with you and you being very shaken up by what you saw. I remember the first time I saw you have a seizure, at home in the front yard; and the second, out to dinner for my birthday. I remember how you devoured your dinner while I stared at mine, unable to relocated my appetite. I remember the first thing in my first apartment fridge was a celebratory bottle of Cold Duck. I remember the first time someone (almost) asked you red or green after you moved back. I remember how angry you were when the mayor had all deadbeat dad's drivers licenses taken away. I remember disowning you by changing my name. I remember trying to get you to the bathroom when you were in the hospital and feeling completely inept. I remember Steven from admitting visiting about your hospital bill. I remember being your hospital bill. I remember Bubsy and the Natural History Museum. I remember my first birthday after I moved to Oregon. I remember how you didn't call, and how much I needed you to. I remember you talking to mom the night that Haley's comet passed, on the phone. I remember asking to live with you when things with mom got so bad. I remember how hurt you seemed when I told you I was leaving Dave and moving to Oregon. I remember how painful it was to have to decide whether to invite you to the wedding. I remember feeling relieved when no one thought I was a bad person for not doing so. I remember the night you died; I remember feeling it happen even 1500 miles away. I felt you say goodbye to the unborn grandson you'd never meet.