Today, I remember Paul

My cousin Paul died eight years ago today.

Eight years. That hardly seems possible.

Life goes on, you recover somewhat from the staggering blow, but you never forget, you never entirely become the person you were before that phone call, the person who was half-watching the Emmys and thinking that you wouldn't be caught dead (caught dead) in most of those outfits, wouldn't take them for free, and hello? hey, are you watching too, what?

What?

And everything stopped.

Eight years later, it isn't as harsh most of the time. Most of the time. As with any death, little things make me think of him, and because he and my friend Pat both died that year, when I think of one I think of both, so I get doubly sad, or sad twice as easily, or some such mathematical equation. Thus, it doesn't take much to give me a twinge:

• motorcycles
• cancer
  
• this movie has been formatted to fit your screen notices
• wolves
• NASCAR (especially Dale Earnhardt)
  
• Saturns (the cars)
  
• the Emmys
• packing peanuts
  

Usually I just think of Paul or Pat, Paul and Pat, and move on; less often I wallow and remember and then move on. You have to remember. Not that I could forget, of course.

And I don't want to. I'm glad that remembering hurts less, has fewer sharp edges than it did. That's enough.