when i was in third grade, president reagan was shot. the principal came in and told us very quietly in a group, crosslegged on the floor. i said "i hope he dies."

i wrote a joke about ronald reagan and sent it to herb caen (rip) at the sf chronicle. he wrote me back a typed letter. my parents brought it to me after school and took me to eat ice cream to celebrate.

i remember these things but they seem so far away, i forget that there were any good times, everything colored with door slamming and crying and asbestos sweat.

my aunt tells me stories of how my dad was insane and lived in the attic. i want to stop the words from coming out of her mouth because they make me cry but i always beg her to tell me more.