They started early. Hours after you were gone. On our way to Tucson to be with you, to face what? Hell? Truth, reality, each other, our past, future, despair.

No, it could only be hell.

We turned the corner into Donald and Becky’s residential tract to drop off Pepsi, your brother’s brand new kitty; the other part of what you called his “life-long dream come true”. And it was there. A white inflatable tender emblazoned with the word Sonrisa. Emblazoned because it conjures up big, bold, in your face, and it was. A big, bold, in your face, “I’m here”. I knew it, cautiously understood it, but I had to confirm.

Why do I know that name? That’s the name of Bill Seal’s boat. Does he live here? No. Why is that here? I don’t know.

My mom and dad, her grandma and grandpa, met at Seals. I know.

You are together.