father's_brother raze "when i die, i don't want a funeral," he says. "just cremate me and put me in a registered letter." 150606 ... unhinged my father doesnt have any brothers. he was the one my grandpa beat when good ole gramps was drunk and frustrated. he was the one that upheld my grandpas last wishes, also cremated but the ashes spread in the bar he spent all his time in, the farm. 150607 ... raze he sent me a video of himself doing an impersonation of a televangelist. he still grows a great beard. the older he gets, the more of my grandfather i see in his face. 211025 ... kerry lyle was younger but bigger, broad shoulders, a football player, popular. he avoided the draft—his number was too high--but dad turned 21 in vietnam. dad was skinny and scrappy: meet me out back, new kid, i don’t like the cut of your jib— always a mouth guard in his pocket, always something to prove, used to shove lyle’s face to the ground and make him eat dirt. he says lyle’s still pissed about it but doesn’t get why—what, we were just boys—but knowing my dad, i do, i get it. we played cards at the beach in florida one year. i was seven, i think. lyle poked fun at me but just enough. he cheated, badly. none of my mother’s puritanical family was like that. he had a gaping hole in his neck, under his left jaw where a tumor the size of a lemon had been removed. it sounds strange but i like the look of it, on him. maybe if he weren’t so sarcastic, so dry, it wouldn’t work. i liked him immediately and didn’t see him again for years. three years ago i wound up on a road trip alone with my parents and the dog, vegas to northern california, down winding roads buried deep in mendocino county, so much hidden in the emerald forests. on the airstrip he said his friend gave him a pound of weed, did i want it, he doesn’t smoke, couldn’t sell it, i could put it in the van on my drive up to oregon? dad said no. we visited his friends when they’d come back from sea, all of them salty and friendly and still in their black rubber boots, standing around a big tub cleaning and cutting the fish they’d caught. you ever gut a fish, girl? no you wanna watch? of course the tub full of bloodwater and bones and scales, their puffy red hands moving quick expertly with those tiny knives, the smell of salt and blood and ocean and fish mesmerizing lyle said do you want to see where i go in the mornings? it’s the most beautiful place. do you like starfish? it was just behind the lighthouse, the rocky coast, and we left my parents behind on the black pebbled beach. i followed him over the rocks, through nooks and crannies, stepping where he’d stepped, sure i’d slip but somehow i didn’t. he darted long-legged graceful as a spider, hands tucked into fleecy pockets, while i held my arms out for balance. we found tidepools, algae of all colors, anemones, a dead peregrine, and he gazed at the horizon while i took pictures of everything, everything. we didn’t find any starfish, he said, sounding disappointed. 211026 what's it to you? who go blather from