"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I wrote this down in a journal not too long ago, but I decided I would post this letter to you. Why not? Anyway, here goes.

You loved Pink Floyd. I only met you a few times, but I can still see your smile. I can still picture the way you were so thirsty for our clean, cold tap water (Dad said it wasn’t like that in Florida). I still remember Dad telling me about your underage drinking and drugs after Mom and Alex went to bed.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in our old house when he set a newspaper down in front of me. The headline went something like this: “17-YEAR-OLD DRUNK DRIVING INCIDENT; KILLS ONE PERSON”. Dad pleaded with me not to tell Mom that he told me about it when I was so young (I may have been seven, but I have a distorted concept of time haha). I agreed I wouldn’t tell.

We never talked about you much, but you fascinate me. When you died a few years ago, I was at the beach with Mom, Dad, and Alex. It was before sunset, but still pretty late nonetheless. I was on the swing set of the deserted-ish, cool beach with Alex, occasionally digging my toes through the sand. That’s when Mom and Dad told us you had died that night.

I know your kids would sometimes ask us for money, (pretty certain they still do at times), but I’m not *too* caught up on the family drama. I’ve seen pictures of you and Dad together, and he doesn’t look too happy. Still, you fascinated me, even more-so after your death that night.

I started to remember each piece of you that I had:
– When I showed you my stuffed animal, Seashell, the night you came to visit our old house.
– When I saw you smoking a cigarette in a gray suit, the way you puffed out the smoke and grabbed it in between two fingers so habitually.
– Your smile, the same as it was in pictures of you from high school (and the same as it was in that picture of you as a ten-year-old in the late sixties with a cigar in your mouth as a joke).
– The way you drank the water from our tap like it was pure gold. My mother thinks it’s pure gold too, because ever since we moved five years ago (I think?) she’s been bitching about how annoying it is that we can’t drink from the tap like we used to. (One time a gas station had an oil leak and it got into our well – Alex came out of the shower smelling like an oil fire…but that’s a story for a different day).

There’s also what I know about you:
– You killed someone when you were 17 due to intoxication before you got behind the wheel.
– You *loved* Pink Floyd, but weren’t into The Doors as much. Dad says it’s because when The Doors were popular, it was the ‘pop music’ of the time. I thought about it, and I guess it makes sense because I’m not into all the bullshit that’s being released right now. (I mean c’mon, I’m listening to Sammi Smith right now).

Sometimes now, when i think about you, I imagine you pre drunk driving incident (but still as a teenager) running your fingers across the sleeve of the Dark Side of the Moon album as if it was the best thing you’d ever laid eyes upon. The same sleeve holding the copy currently in my living room. The same record that was a rare misprint (apparently extremely valuable and rare). But, I would never, and *could never* EVER sell it.

First off, Pink Floyd fucking rocks (so Dad please let me inherit this – please). But, second – It was yours. I don’t know too much about you, like I said, but I enjoy piecing together what I can.

Oh also, I know I’m all degrading about religion (and very much agnostic), but if there really is some kind of afterlife (and you aren’t burning eternally in it) get along with my grandpa Mike and your sister Kathy. Please dude, for my dad.
Thanks man – OH!
And, If you meet Gilmour, TELL HIM HE FUCKIN’ ROCKS!

The rest of this isn’t what I wrote in my journal, but what I’m writing now because I am enjoying this.

I’m a teenager and I’ve made some horrible decisions. I know it seems like I’m only lightly touching on the killing someone thing, but seriously, that was your fuck up. I’m sure you had a lot of others, and of course it’s an awful thing, no buts.

I feel a bit guilty saying this, but I used to fuck up and think, “I have two uncles who have killed someone, one distant relative whose nursing license was permanently taken away for mercy-killing,” and some other similar things.

I’m getting to the point, though, don’t worry. The point is: I have a lot of regrets. I regret stealing fourteen-hundred dollars from my parents. I regret crashing my mom’s old car when I was just thirteen years old. I regret buying the hemp cigarettes from someone sketchy at age thirteen (I suppose it was my golden ‘fuck up’ year). I regret a lot, but I’ve been told not to dwell on it.

I know I wouldn’t do that shit again, but the option is always there. The funny thing about death is that the person isn’t there. There are no do-overs. Even if I regretted drinking hard liquor, I could always do it again. I regret not talking to you (and the truth will out). But, you’re not here anymore.

It’s weird how someone I hardly knew, someone so fucking distant from me, is so intriguing. That’s why I imagine what you were like. I know your kids are like fucking animals and I’m not supposed to talk to them (and I don’t, I’m a teenager and they’re adults now), but you are you, not them.

I wish I could sit down with you as you smoke another one of those cancer sticks you’ve loved forever and show you how I can play Brain Damage by Pink Floyd on the guitar. I wish I could watch your eyes as they watch my fingers playing, as I curse under my breath when I hit the wrong chord. I think you wouldn’t react to it, just waiting for me to keep playing. That’s what I like about you, or at least, what I knew of you.

You were more of a free spirit than my parents. They’re always anxious about something, and Dad is pretty dazed a lot of the time. But, he was never dazed the way you were. Dad is dazed in the sense that he needs to escape from reality. You were never needing an escape, instead wanting that freedom.

It’s complicated to explain exactly what I mean, and I could ramble on like this for hours. But, I hope you know that despite the lack of relationship we had, and despite the minimal conversation and meetups, I forgive you.

I don’t think you were worried about whether or not your half-brother’s teenage son would forgive you, but I do. I can’t say I miss you, because death is a complicated thing for me. Last year a girl in my class died from cancer, and I hardly knew her.

Her name was Lara. She was beautiful, and her favorite color was purple. They told us she was getting better, but she wasn’t getting better. She wasn’t responding to any of the treatment.

I remember I went to a casual dance once (weird for me considering my lack of appreciation for the people I am forced to associate with). I saw her there with her friends, which was odd because she wasn’t at school that year. She had to do her work from some kind of hospital or something.

As I walked by her, I fumbled with my things and looked at her. I think I said something like, “Your hair is really pretty.” Probably something stupid. She just smiled at me, a big smile with her slightly crooked teeth, and said, “Thanks!”

When I learned that she died, it was very late at night. I got out of bed and stood in the middle of my room. I kept saying the same thing over and over again:
“It should have been me. It should have been me. It should have been me.”

Death is complicated, because I can’t say I miss her either. I can’t say I miss Aunt Kathy, or Pop Pop, or Great Grammie, or the Queen of England’s husband who just died yesterday. I mean, I miss Bowie and I miss Kurt C., but they were with me when I felt like I was dying every night, so it’s different.

Just because I can’t say that I miss you doesn’t mean that I don’t wish I could talk to you. I think this letter is because I think you’re fascinating and wish I could’ve conversed with you more while you were alive.

But, like I said before: I forgive you.

So, Uncle Bobby,
If the band you’re in starts playing different tunes,
I’ll see you on the Dark Side of the Moon.

[P.S. A year ago I changed my name to Major because I like it better]