My Cousin

I just got in to London this morning to find out that my cousin died last week. He was 32.

I haven't seen him for years - that branch of the tree became frail and withered. He was orphaned in a way, years ago: his mum died and his dad may as well have as far as he any use he has ever been to any of his four kids. How any woman can love a man who abandons/ wilfully fucks up his kids is beyond me. He will apparently not be at his son's funeral/memorial. I feel I now want to free him of the burden of schlepping out to my wedding later this year. But what would my dad want?

Yeah. The irony is my cousin's dad (let's call him "Shit Dad") is the brother of my late (as in dead, not tardy) father (aka as "Best Dad Who Ever Lived"TM). Or is that not irony? Bloody Alanis.

RIP B. I am so sorry that I didn't reach across broken adult messiness and try and maintain a relationship with you and my other cousins. I am sorry that that generation was so fucked and that you are yet another casualty of all that preceded you; the sins of the fathers and all that. My heart aches for old memories and what seemed like simpler times but probably weren't so idyllic for the adult characters in the piece. Whatever G-d you ended up following - your mother's Catholic or dad's Jewish - or indeed none at all, may She/He/It/Something bring you peace. And lots of love from your cousin who wishes she had have done ... something. It is making me a bit sick that I believe myself to be this "right on" community-minded person ("I give to charities and I am soooo great!") and yet I don't know most of my relatives because I've at worst bought into, at best not challenged narratives of inane, insane family feuds, fracas and fuck-ups.

xxx