Snap Studios.

I snatched the fairy from the sky and waited for to hear him cry.

Instead, he whispered deep and low that I do best to let him go.

You listen to Spooked.

Stay. you've crossed over to spooked. I have a bottle of homemade hot sauce in my refrigerator

to someone made for me.

The hand-drawn label reads Ford Glen.

And I love this hot sauce. It kicks. Spicy, sweet, delicious, a finishing

hit of curry makes everything taste better. Throw a couple dashes on some fried eggs, watch out. I'm savoring the very

last eggs of the bottle, I will miss it. And I can't get anymore because I can't recall who gave it to me.

Such a personal thoughtful handmade gift and I have no idea where it came from.

I've always had a problem remembering basic things, people, events, stories of my own life

because I grew accustomed to outsourcing all the recollecting to my brother.

His amazing ability to recall the most minute details from events two, three decades past.

Who stood where? Who said what?

Who burnt the hot dogs and who ate up all the potato salad?

His telling became the official register of my own life

for the places I've been. He's been right there too. Things I've done,

relationships I've had, and now...

I've gone.

I didn't just lose my brother.

I lost my story.

...