This begins a series posts from a work in progress: The Forty-Nine, an upcoming novel in letters. Excerpts of each letter will be posted in sequence. To browse them in order from the beginning, jump to Letter #1. In the lower right of each post, you can then advance to the next.
Hey Ed ∙∙∙
Ages, right? How’s Baltimore? This monstrous gap of time… the blame falls on me. Haven’t seen you since my wedding. Bells Bells Bells. First wedding, now a funeral. Miguel has died. I’m here at the Undertaker’s now, waiting for the ME to show up. All this tedium surrounding death. Thus far, there’s nothing gracious about it, and I know Miguel would have wanted his death to be a gracious thing.
Perhaps it’s not too late for that.
O Ed! My friend most macabre! I suppose it is odd to find grace in the macabre, but it’s there. You’re a much more beautiful a man that most people give you credit for. When I was a kid, you were a great comfort to me. Thanks.
You’re not going to believe what I’m dealing with here. The Undertaker is straight out of Dickens. Robertus Quinn, I kid you not. Aspirations to emperor. Earlier this morning we were trying to compose the death notice. The artist, Miguel Kahlo, resident of Manhattan and of Russia, New York, died unexpectedly in Russia, on the night of the Cold Moon, December 29, 2020. He was 44. Sounds mysterious, don’t you think? Miguel would have liked the mystery.
