Hey, J...it's been a year now since you left us and I still can't quite keep from crying whenever I think too close about it. The Boy Wonder named one of his "sleepy toys" after you, telling me that maybe a "new" J. would help me miss you less. Sweet in the way that only a four year old can be, but I can't think of a thing that would stop me from missing you. Not even time, apparently.

I wrote that terrible priest a letter after your funeral, you know. I'm convinced he was more concerned about his tee time than you or the hundreds of people who came to say good-bye to you. I never got a response, but never really expected one, either. He probably didn't appreciate the "alternate" homily I included or the suggestion that he substitute it for the one he used. Well, that and the recommendation that he learn people's names before conducting their funerals. Just as a basic courtesy and all, right? What a tool.

I drank a toast to you last night, as we all promised to do evermore. It wasn't an Alabama Slammer, of course, because I had to drive home. Besides, Slammers were always your department and we're not ready to fill the position yet. So you have to settle for the cheap Chardonnay available at Baja Bean. I know, I know. I'll plan ahead better next year. Planning was your department, too.

We're not going to the beach this year. We went last year because you had made the point of organizing R.'s birthday celebration and we all wanted to be there for him. I couldn't bear the thought of going this year, though. I know you believed that ocean air and a good swim could cure just about anything but we never tested it against a broken heart, did we?