Context: Written 6/11/26 the day after we arrived in Los Angeles. In December of last year, we flew Danny out and met at LAX and spent many days together at my brother’s.

Prompt: “It was supposed to be fun…”

Retirement was supposed to be fun, or at least fun–adjacent. Relaxing, self-paced, marked only by travel complications and joint pain.

Not this.

It was supposed to be a time to clean out attic and garage, tend the garden, meet up with friends for a matinee.

Not this.

This time was supposed to be anticipatory in two directions — death, yes death, ahead on one side, an unavoidable tally of years but birth on the other, grandchildren, babies coming into the world.

Not this.

We flew over Colorado and I cried. We flew over the Nevada desert and I looked out the window wondering if he’d looked at the same on his last flight west. (His last flight west).

We landed at LAX. I held back tears at baggage claim because the last time I waited for a bag, we were also waiting for Danny’s flight to land. I cried on the way to the Uber pick up area — just folded like a hinge, put my head on my bag near the handle, and cried. Ken didn’t notice. He was so intent on getting to the pick up area which is, I swear, a mile from the terminal.

Later, we picked up Danny’s car from his brother’s and I cried. I sat on the seat where we’d found the box of bullets, an impossible recollection. I looked at the dusty dashboard and asserted, “Danny wouldn’t have let his car get this dirty.” We agreed on that point.

Now, the rejiggering retrospective includes highlights of a long and slow retreat. Did we even talk in the backyard that time, I wonder? Did we talk during that meal or that walk? My memory is poor, but my son’s silences grew to be pretty constant, epic even.

I write letters to Danny almost every day now. Yesterday I asked, “What happened to that joyfully kinetic, friend-loving guy?” Always there’d been fear and panic, doubt and worry, but always that negativity had been braided with the antics and cheer of an outgoing affectionate imp. Where did he go?

And now I recall a visit ago, let’s call it a penultimate visit (a penultimate visit), asking this very question “You’re so tamped down, Danny. Where did that more cheerful guy go?”

There was no answer. He had no answer.

The “what-if’s” take a break for a week and then storm back with a fury.

What if early on I pulled him out of the public schools? Or what if later on, I’d temporarily moved to Boulder to arrange proper psychiatric care? What else did I have to do?

All the interventions were so incremental, band-aids or suggestions of help, not lasting, meaningful help. Why didn’t I treat the situation years ago as a full-blown life or death crisis, which it was. It always was, as it turns out, a life or death crisis.

Reminiscing was supposed to be, if not fun then at least marked by a bittersweet nostalgia – an annoying echo of a Raffi song or a shrug of a memory at being beyond tired but going to Drumlin Farm anyway.

Not this.

Every counter and table is now covered with nails pointed upward ready to wound. Every floor is puddled with black grease ready to cause a slip and a fall. Every shelf is loaded with regret. Dodging the dangers makes one tired. There are retreats, but no actual respite and if I’m to believe half of what I read, there never will be. There is no getting over this. There’s no getting around this, this loss, this grief. Ever.

Update on visit: California weather does not disappoint. Billy is doing well. Lila is fine too except for a prolonged panic attack yesterday when a neighbor’s shrill and piercing alarm went on for hours. Poor thing. We finally gave her a trazadone.

I’m so grateful that I was here in this sports-loving household the night of the Knicks game because it meant I watched every minute of it. Wow!

To just see the comeback in the final quarter would’ve meant so much less without weathering the quarters where the Knicks were losing by a lot.

Also of course we watched the first U.S. Men’s soccer game which as it turns out was played here in LA. Also a gratifying win.

Today? Cary and his girlfriend visit. I’ve already made cold cucumber soup.

And perhaps, a dip in the pool!