Of course, I think of Ian all the time. All the time. And today, of all days I'm aware of our loss. Thanksgiving, I think, was Ian's favorite holiday. He loved to go to his aunt's and uncle's house for holiday dinners. He loved to eat and he loved to visit with his family. Ian was a very sweet person, very loving, very friendly, very easy to talk to, so funny and so interesting and interested. It was strange to be there without him. I didn't cry then, though it was a struggle at times.

I think about how Ian died and it makes me so very sad. There was so much more to Ian than partying, but that's how his life ended. That's what we're left with.

Ian mixed drinking and drugs and as brilliant as he was, he wasn't smart enough to know he could die. He thought he was having fun, having a good time. He thought he was in control. I don't know how many conversations we had about how being under the influence (whether of drugs or alcohol) takes away your control. I think there are a lot of people out there that knew Ian, not all of them young either, who are doing the same thing and just have been lucky so far. It seems to me that anyone who loved Ian would see the danger and take better care of themselves. It makes me angry when I see that is not the case. If anyone out there thinks they are smart enough to control the situation when they are drinking and/or doing drugs, then they're not really thinking, are they? None of them are any smarter than Ian was and if he died, so can they. Maybe not an accidental overdose, maybe they'll live in spite of their stupidity, or maybe they'll end up in a wreck, killing or hurting themselves or others. In fact, whenever I worried about Ian, it wasn't about an accidental overdose...it was always about driving under the influence and maybe involving innocent people. I know it's good that he didn't hurt anyone else but I can't really say that I feel any better. After all, he IS dead. I will never ever ever again have him dancing all around me while I fix him dinner, laughing at how silly he is, catching little kisses on the cheek from him as he dances. I will never ever see him, hear him, touch him again.

Ian just turned 24 on Sept. 2, 2006, 5 days before he died. Every birthday that passed, I would actually think that we had come through another year, he was another year closer to being mature, another year closer to being out of danger from himself, growing out of that feeling peculiar to the young that they, at one and the same time, are invincible yet likely to die young. He was doing well at his work, being very responsible, trying to do a good job. He really liked it, liked the people he worked with, liked the customers. I wonder sometimes, if that feeling was too at odds with his vision of himself as a writer, a creative person. Maybe too ordinary.

I think about Ian driving that last night to a friend's house, how that friend was so good to Ian, saw his blue lips and ears, saw that he was not breathing yet did not call 911. I wonder why not? I wonder if it would have made a difference? I wonder if he could have recovered or if he would have been just a shell. I wondered if he recovered if he would have gone out and done the same dangerous things all over again as I've seen others do. I wonder about all those things but I cannot blame anyone else for Ian's death. Ian is the one who drank and took drugs. He decided to do that, he lost control and now he has paid the ultimate price and we are left missing him because he was so much more than that.

Thanksgiving without Ian this year and all the years to come.