It's a very strange thing, writing a letter to someone I didn't have any honest communication with for as long as I can remember. This is partially because, before you'd gotten really bad, I was a young kid who probably babbled to you about whatever young kids like to talk about. I remember when we took my other grandparents' boat on Gull Lake for a fishing trip to celebrate Grandpa's birthday, and you took the hook out of my fish for me, because I was too grossed out by the whole thing. I remember you hid pumpkins in a big leaf pile in your backyard for my younger sister and me to find. I remember you made us homemade beef jerky that tasted like hickory. During those years, I probably talked to you about school, about how much I liked horses, and about going to sleep-away camp.

And then, you got pretty bad, and honest talks never really got to happen.

It's weird, because my mom is one of the most normal, nice people I've ever met. She has a husband, two kids, a rescue dog, and a mini van. She got good grades, a degree, and remodeled our basement because she got bored one day. My grandma was pretty quiet, but had a lot of hobbies she really took pride in, like cooking and sewing. My grandpa, your father, could've gotten "The Most Interesting Man" award, whether it be for his mile-long dissertation, affinity for forestry, or knack for eating 5 years' expired foods without so much as a raised eyebrow.

And then, there's you.

I was pretty pissed at you for a lot of years. I remember, during my senior year in high school, on the road with my mom, driving to Illinois for an audition. I was begging her not to invite you to my graduation party, because you'd either be A.) drunk B.) hungover or C.) pouting like a little kid. She said that there was a pretty good chance you'd be too drunk to even show up, which made me weirdly happy. Of course, you'd be dead just four days later.

When I was in early high school, maybe around 14 or so, you went to the hospital because you were very sick. Everyone--especially my grandpa-- was very worried, and that worry turned to anguish when you told him that you had some form of cancer. My grandpa lost his wife a few years before, and the thought of him losing you (much how it would any parent) brought him more pain than you or I could ever know. I forget how long it took before the truth came out, and the detail of how it came out are still kind of fuzzy. You were home now, resting, and my grandpa went to check on you. In your closet, or maybe your garage, he found a small mountain of plastic bottles that, at some point, contained cheap, shitty vodka. And then things went from there.

It was an early weekday morning when my mom told my sister and me that you were an alcoholic. "Well, girls," she said to us as we all rushed around the kitchen, getting ready to leave for school, "we found out why your uncle is so sick, and it makes me really, really mad."

We learned that you were an alcoholic, a pretty damn bad one based on how often you landed yourself in the hospital, and that you'd completely lied to my grandpa about having any sort of weird cancer. You claimed that the test results must've gotten mixed up, but I rolled my eyes, because that was bullshit and everyone knew it.

I don't like alcoholics. I realize that that is not a very nice thing to say, because some people can be alcoholics and hold down a job and a family. When I think of you and your alcoholism, I think of the word "waste." You wasted so much of everyone's time and money. My grandpa got you a place in a good rehab facility, and you were a complete dick about going. You called ambulances to take you to the hospital like they were damn taxi cabs. You don't call an ambulance when you're feeling sick because your liver is a trash heap, you call an ambulance when there's an actual emergency. You wasted any sort of positive expectation my sister and I had about having an uncle who'd be fun to have come to our youth symphony concerts. But mostly, you were a waste of you. You were a great cook, and a really talented woodworker. You made wooden models of all sorts of birds and creatures, but they sat in your garage because you were too drunk to take them to an art show.

You died on a week night. I was eating plain spaghetti noodles with butter, in the basement, procrastinating my stats homework. I'd been a legal adult for ten days. "Guess what?" called my sister from the top of the stairs. "What?" I screeched back, a fork full of noodles halfway to my mouth.

"Uncle Chris died!"

I abandoned my noodles and thundered up the stairs. "What?" My mom was throwing a couple of things in her purse. "You're going over there, then?" I asked her, as she grabbed a handful of tissues. She explained: "Guess I'd better take these; he was my brother after all."

I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure she didn't use them.

Two Christmases before you died, our family was bent on starting a new tradition with my grandpa. The holidays always made him sad, since my grandma died, and we wanted to make him feel a little bit better by going out for a fun dinner at our family's favorite Mexican restaurant. My parents, sister, and I all munched on chips as we waited for you and my grandpa to arrive. I don't remember why exactly (obviously, alcoholics shouldn't be given car keys), but he took your car keys away I believe. Finally, after a basket and a half of chips, my grandpa arrived, without you, shook his head sadly, and that was that. My mom had made a special trifle for dessert, one with chunks of chocolate cake and homemade whipped cream. You told us that you'd feel better, and we could do a make-up Christmas. So we did. And you still didn't show. This time, Mom made a lemon trifle with blueberries.

By the time you finally pulled yourself together to have an actual Christmas celebration, it was well into January, and my mother was sick of making trifle.

Do I miss you? Nope. Not one bit. I do not miss you at all. In fact, when you'd been taken to the coroner, had an autopsy, and were ruled 100% dead, I didn't shed one single tear. In all honesty, I was happy that you'd died before you'd driven drunk into a nice family or a young professional on the way to work. I remember, in the months before you died, I swore to my sister that if you'd ever actually gotten arrested for drunk driving, I'd write you one letter, send it to jail, and tell you I never wanted to see you again.

At your memorial, I read a couple of paragraphs I'd written about you. I talked about some of my earlier memories with you, ones that I actually do look back on. I remember we once went to Michigan's Adventure, a theme park a couple hours away, and we rode every roller coaster. Those happy things are what I talked about, which is what everyone else who had a speech talked about. It was strange because no one really cried. A couple of speakers had very soft voices, but they were just scared of public speaking. Everyone ate cookies afterwards, and that was that.

We buried you on one of the record-coldest August days in Barron, Wisconsin. Or, should I say, what was left of you. My grandpa had you cremated. He died fourteen months after you did, so we took him and Grandma too. It was forty degrees, and my lips shook on my mouthpiece as my sister and I played duet hymns.

There's not a whole bunch of life lessons I can extract from your legacy, other than, when life hands you lemons, dunking your head in a vat of vodka ain't the way to go about things. I'm 21 now. Sometimes I go to bars. Once, I ordered a vodka-and-Sprite, because I didn't know what all was on the menu, and the taste made me gag and feel a little bit sad. I gave my boyfriend the drink, and I said, "Babe, try this." He took a sip and wrinkled his face. I like to think that we are successful, young, and happy, and maybe this is what causes our documented aversion to shit-vodka.

Anyways, I used to think how badly I didn't want to end up like you, like ending up like you was some shitty card dealt in a game of chance. Then, I realized, I will never be like you. When my life gets tough, I throw on my running shoes, or put on a little lipstick, or even call my mom and bitch to her. And that's that. Becoming what you were was a decision every day, until it wasn't a decision anymore and turned into a compulsion. And that compulsion turned into what eventually killed you.

When I drink lemonade in bars, I sometimes think of you.