Two years ago my uncle died. It's an odd thing to think about. And even odder, that I didn't actually think about it on the day he died, but rather earlier in the week. And then I feel guilty because I didn't recall it until my mom asked me if I remembered.

It still doesn't seem right, that my uncle isn't still at the house on the hill, that the youngest of them was taken first. And I really can't relate to how my cousin and aunt, and my mother, even, can deal with it. It's like if I don't think about it, it's not real. Isn't that silly?

At the risk of slipping into melancholy, I'll run back to work and forget about this for a while. I'm not depressed, just busy, honest.

Do you ever just think,
"I'm fooling everybody"?

You have no idea.