I have been writing a letter in the tradition of open letters to people who are unlikely to respond, except not funny. I know that the McSweeney’s letters are the deadpan sort of humor that is often not funny, and that the letter I have written may be construed as funny, and may in fact be unintentionally hilarious, but my sincerity is almost real here, which is about as close as I get these days. The letter goes:
I know you blame yourself for Ettore’s death, but I do not blame you. I know you blame yourself because I blame myself. I was surprised by my feelings of guilt, even though I could have expected as much: after all, it’s in the insurance company’s pamphlet about dealing with the death of a loved one.
I haven’t heard from you, and I hope that’s not because you’re afraid I’ll blame you. I also hope it’s not because you never liked me all that much. I like to imagine that you are busy doing late-December tasks, that have thrown yourself into work and art as a way to cope, that you are finding your own ways to mourn.
I want to get beyond this writing of saccharine letters about forgiveness and growth. I want to stop waking up in the night thinking “goddamnit, he can’t be dead, I just spoke with him,” or “Monday I have to ask him about the product schedule,” or “I should lend him this album, he’ll totally love this. I want to stop wondering if I could have done something. If I had known, I would have acted, but I did not know. If you had known, you would have acted, but you did not know.
Fear, suspicion, and guilt cling to us, but they cannot help him and they cannot help us.
Also, I feel a need to confess that at the wake, when people asked me how I was, I kept wanting to point at the body and say “I’m doin’ better than he is!” The statement, while true, was nonetheless very, very inappropriate, and I feel bad for even thinking it.
Secretly Ironic 