No.

Hey Chris :) Last night (Friday) James, Kate, Gemma and I went and had a beer with you at your grave. James made a makeshift grave“stone” (it’s wood) for you with an old woodturning kit we had in the basement. You would love it… probably more than you’ll like the real stone. (How fucked up is it to think about you loving your own grave?) But it’s very peaceful there - every time we’ve gone we’ve seen deer. I tell myself it’s you sending signs. It’s really convenient that it’s deer season in New York and they are everywhere. You are everywhere. Except physically with us.

You knew that cemetery well. You’re buried close to Tommy Scogs. I remember you used to go to visit him every Christmas. I can’t believe now we’re going to visit you. James told us you and he worked there one summer. With Mr. O’Sullivan. You helped to build the road and plant trees that connect the clearing where you are buried to the rest of the cemetery.

This morning I am overcome with disbelief. It feels so fake. Not dream-like, more like a movie. I keep waiting for it to end but it doesn’t. 

I have such clear images of you in my head these days. Clearer even than in the days after you died. I think I was just in shock. I’m still in shock. But I just can’t believe how recently you were here. We were JUST talking. I can remember exact conversations. Exact places we were together. They come up in conversation not because you died, just because they were yesterday. We’ll talk about a dinner a few weeks back and remember… you were there.

I went back to Paris on Oct 16th. You drove me into the city on my way to the airport. We talked about the jobs you were applying to (Zillow specifically… you got the second round interview btw. James had to tell them. They sent flowers). I said you needed to be picky. YOU choose the company you want to work for. Decide on an expertise to develop. DON'T jump at the first company to make you an offer. We talked about relationships. I can see the face you make when you laugh. That high pitch squeaky inhale when you think something is ridiculously funny. How are you gone? How is any of this real?