I’m sad to hear, but relieved you passed on in your sleep. Assuming you had no pain then. I hope there are sex, great food, and wild drugs in your afterlife. Alternately, I wish you reincarnation as a hot chick, because I think you’d fancy that. The last time I saw you was mom’s memorial in the forest. On the drive there you explained Van Morrison lyrics to me, offering two theories: Jellyroll as reference to great Blues musician, or jellyroll as term of endearment for the vagina. I’d never heard the term used either way. You wrote smut and played music and were Smarter and Snarkier Than Everyone Else as a way of life. You were very, very cool, and by extension I was cooler because here I was sitting in Aunt Pea’s cozy little kitchen discussing a hangover and silk scarf bondage techniques with a dude who had tried to get in my mom’s pants and maybe did get in my aunt’s pants while we ate Xanax and rolled joints and prepared for her funeral. You were a sexy razor-wit beatnick inside a big fat hairy hippy and you were unavoidably lovable.
I send loving, gentle thoughts to Aunt Pea, who is hurting acutely. I know she’s missing mama desperately and grieving hard for their friend.