February 7, 2000

Dear Laura,

We’re in a new millennium and today would be your birthday. More than anything I wish we could light 47 candles to celebrate your birth and the gregarious little girl we all loved. You took a hard left turn at 17. You chose to align yourself romantically with a 25-year-old sociopath who introduced you to LSD. I comforted you into the following dawn. This was no fun ride. You couldn’t shake the nightmarish images for the next quarter century. You thought booze was the answer but it wasn’t.

Sometimes my anger moves with such determination through my toes and upward that I think my head is going to explode. Why did you do this? Why did you desert me, Laura? We all tried for over a quarter century to bring back your joy but the sparkle never returned to your beautiful eyes, and the giggles were gone.

I have been dealing with the prospect of processing your inevitably early death since that bad trip in 1969. Alcoholics who self-medicate rather than confront their mental health demons die on the average at 43. You beat the odds, but I’m still mad as hell. Maybe composing a bunch of tunes will help us both. What do you think?

Love, Brad

— —

close window