ed sr,

i don't know what i can call you. "my father" sounds pretty formal. "my dad" sounds too much like i know you. "ed" sounds like i'm talking about my big brother, ed jr. "my biological dad" sounds like i'm adopted. i'm not adopted. i just don't have you. i have brad. mom married him about five years after you left. i can't bring myself to think of him as my father, even though i never had you. i had a mom, brothers, a nanny when i was little and mom still worked for the phone company, and every once in a while i'd find myself with a friend or two. but never you. i always wondered what it would be like to grow up with you. or what i would say if i ever met you walking down the street. and how much joy i would feel finding out you were alive. but you're not. my only memory of you is the giant fish tank at the funeral home where they held your visitation. it had eels. huge fish and eels. that has to be my earliest memory: my father's funeral service, and its big aquarium. mom says you liked fishing. we have christmas tree ornaments that she says were yours; they're all of little bears. they have little wooden signs that say "gone fishin'" (the bear is holding a fishing pole), or "java junkie" (this one's holding a cup of coffee). mom also says you loved coffee. she blocked out a lot about you after you left, but she remembers your starbucks order. i know it now too. a triple venti no-foam latté. i've yet to work up the nerve to order one; that would probably be as close as i could feel to you and i don't know if i'm ready for that yet. she also remembers your music. you liked the blues and a little reggae, i think. and she has a tendency to bring up the time she caught you singing along to "man, i feel like a woman." i know you used to play the guitar, or at least own one. mike has it now; it's the one i learned on before my mom and brad got me my own for chrismas. i wish i could hear you play. or hear your voice. i have a picture of you framed on my dresser, but i've never heard you. not in videos or audio recordings or anything. i've always wondered if i got my more musical, artistic side from you. mom's more of an analytical and thought-powered person. i don't think you were. i think you tried your best to be happy and see the best in life, but it just didn't work. i hope you're happier wherever you are now than when you were on earth. i hope you're with your mom and dad, who also died before their time, and all your brothers and sisters who died too young from long-qt syndrome(i have to get tested for it every few years, because mom says it runs in your side of the family) or other ways of dying. mom says your family didn't get along well, but i hope you're all happy together now. one day i hope i'll be happy with all of you too. or at least meet you in passing if i don't end up in the same place as you when i die. i'm sorry my brothers and mom and i weren't able to save you. i'm sorry that you can't see who i am today, because i like to think you'd be proud of me.

thank you for being my inspiration, for granting me with the opportunity to be better.

the only child (out of four) who never knew you,
abby 

ps: i'm sorry that i kept your name. it feels wrong, because you weren't really there in the family i grew up with. but if i had switched to brad's sirname, i would lose what little i have left of you. i don't have much. it may not feel right, but i'm holding on to you with everything i have, and i'm sorry that i kept your name.