...I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner. Fart from the other room.
...Sleeping in on Sunday morning. Fart across the house.
...In the bathroom, big fart. It totally wasn't me.
I tried to ignore the fact that unlike most siblings, my brother and I did not have a relationship rich in flatulence, that if he was going to communicate with me from the dead it was unlikely to be through farts, but I guess I miss him so much I was willing to think maybe? That is until we had a massive heat wave and figured out that our ceiling fans run on the same frequency as the fart machine, so whenever anyone turns the fans on or off or up or down, the fart machine rips one from the other room. (Please nobody show Ozzy this new trick.) Consequently, I have requesting a reading from Tyler Henry because something tells me he is true and does not fart either; he has yet to get back to me.
So there's that.
It's been a few months. We went to Costa Rica. Spent the summer swimming, surfing, fighting, reading, trying to find the best mascara. I think this might be it. Zoey is now in middle school, Ozzy now a Cub Scout. There are hurricanes and wildfires, earthquakes, North Korea. The world might be ending but I kind of doubt it, because it is September, and everything is too beautiful.