Dear Ed,
You would have turned 71 today, man. 
As for me, welp.  I’m 44. Where were you when you were 44? That seems like the sort of thing you’d tell me if I called you on your birthday. Well, damn, I was 17. So we were living in Tsukuba then, where we were when you got that middle of the night call about your father’s stroke. Who was on the other end? I never knew. I remember waking up though, when the phone rang, but you were there before me. I remember sitting with you while you cried, halfway around the world and 14 hours in the future from your dad while he lay in some hospital. “My poor dad,” you choked out.  I felt the same. My poor dad. 
But that year you were 44, well, I guess I got to thinking about you less and less. I was restless and angry and frustrated and wanting to be the boss of my own destiny, not trapped in boring-ass Japan with my boring damn family and the only relief from the boredom was a day of ikebana and o-cha once per week. Science city my ass, I hate this gaijin ghetto, I remember yelling when I wasn’t sullen and resentful. I could be at home making $3.75 an hour. I could have shit to do. No, I don’t like the other gaijin kid. I am so sick of being member number three of the fabulous flying Franquemonts, here, stay watching the luggage while Chris and Molly go to the bathroom for the umpteenth time and Ed goes to scout what there is for airport food, bla bla bla, I’m over it. 
When you were the age I am now, so much changed. You had playgrounds to build and Chris had that gaijin researcher gig. I went off to college. Molly stayed with Chris in Japan and you were back and forth. Sometimes I’ve tried to explain how it worked, that I moved out of my parents’ house by leaving Japan and rebelliously living… In my parents’ house in Ithaca. It’s a Franquemont thing. They wouldn’t understand. And it that don’t sound 1989 as fuck, I don’t know what does. 
Well anyway, so I have also arrived at that far future time in a person’s life when their firstborn is all grown up. Goddamn, I wish you could see him. I wish you could hear him. I wish that just once, just once, you could hear him at the jazz trombone.  I wouldn’t even ask for the time for him to get to have long talks with you about music. Just for one time where you got to go hear him and then he got to see how much you loved it and how proud you were. 
Hey listen man, I can’t make this a long letter, even though I want to and there’s so much to say. So fucking much. The years keep piling on and actually I’m glad they do but… Yeah I really can’t do it, I mean like physically. I’m gonna be fine and all, but I will tell ya, for a bit there I was afraid I was gonna be really precocious again in yet another way I never asked for. Anyway, while I’m writing this I keep crying, and then I have to blow my nose, and that hurts like a sonofabitch right now because a week ago I was the one laying in a bed in a surgical oncology inpatient unit. I don’t have cancer, but man, I just survived some science fiction shit. I would now make a much more interesting mummy. I hope the future archaeologists don’t think I got rid of an ovary and some other bits in a gendered stage of life rite of passage.

 I’ll do what I can to contribute facts to the primary sources the future will need. I’m still concerned about the longevity of humanity’s digital record, though. Also I think literacy is going to become an esoteric fringe skill in my kid’s lifetime. And I wish you could have seen the Internet slap fights over whether it’s more progressive if the first black president gets replaced by a woman or a Jewish dude. And yeah, really, Trump and a couple of dudes with Latino last names who even argued about which one of ’em didn’t even speak Spanish, and they’re republicans. 
See? I can not dwell. I can mostly just not freak out when shit gets heavy. You can still count on me to actually watch the whole family’s supplies for a year of living in the field, I swear, and now I’m old enough I think it’s funny how much I resented that all those years ago when you were my age. One thing hard about all this is now I’m down to just 15 more times I can say “when you were my age.”  I can’t fucking believe it’s 12 years since the last birthday you ever had. I’m glad you were out of the hospital that day, and long enough that we got to go have an ice cream sundae. 
Saw a news story last night about a trial cancer treatment breakthrough something something 94% got legit better using their own immune system to fight blood cancer type something and I kinda broke. Not broke down. Just couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t parse it. Sometimes I get so mad about how close in time you were to probably having lots more time. I know that’s one reason why you told me, while you lay dying, not to let anger win. And you’re right. Also, man, you should see the scar I’m gonna have from these staples. This summer I’m totally gonna wear something midriff baring and show it off, because it’s gonna be damned impressive. And yes, I promise I’ll stay on top of all my checkups. 
I usually find you a song for your birthday, usually a version of Farther Along. But this year I think I’ll just say hey, these guys were amazing in concert. If I lived in Ithaca I’d have seen them at the State Theater. 

Also I wrote this while post on a touchscreen tablet. Everybody has them now. You would have loved and hated the, just like I do. 
Man, I miss you. And I wish you could have seen this. It was in 2010. And now everybody calls him Ed, by the way. You’d probably know him on first sight even though you haven’t seen him since he was in kindergarten. 
I love you, Ed. I miss you all the time. And yeah. Still double on your birthday.