Written one Sunday in April · Read again each April
Tess —
You are the person I would call, so this is written to you. Don’t try to hold all of it at once. Start with Jonah, and then with today. Text Jonah first, then call him. He knows the family, and he knows our lawyer, so let him make the calls you would rather not. Then Lena next door, at number 14. She has walked Biscuit more times than I have thanked her for, and she will be over before you finish asking.
The house will keep. The spare key is in the ceramic bowl on the walnut sideboard, where it has always been, and Lena has the other one. Trash and recycling go out on Monday night. The Wi-Fi is on the card behind the router: one line, nothing clever.
Money is duller than anyone warns you, which is a mercy. The mortgage comes out of the Wells Fargo checking on its own, and so does nearly everything else. The accounts are listed by name, enough to prove what exists and never enough for a stranger to use. Our tax preparer has seven years of returns. Let them do the arithmetic.
When someone official asks you for paper, and they will, more than once, the green folder is in the top drawer of the desk in the back bedroom. The will and the advance directive are in it, in the order people ask for them. Our lawyer drafted the will and keeps a copy. Order fifteen certified copies, not five; every bank wants its own.
My phone passcode isn’t on this page. Nor are the passwords for my email and the password manager. Those three will be sealed for you, and you’ll open them when it matters, not before. The fire safe is in the hall closet; Jonah knows where its key is.
Most of the bills can stop, and a few deserve to keep going. Keep iCloud for at least a year; the photos are there. Keep Spotify for the kids. Cancel the Adobe plan before it renews in May, and The New Yorker, which I never once finished.
Pickup is at 3:10, at the side gate. Biscuit has one scoop at seven and another at six, and he will tell you he has had neither. June’s inhaler lives in her backpack, with a spare in the kitchen drawer. Milo falls asleep with his lamp on. June will tell you she is allowed a second story. She is.
None of this is what I most want to say to you. Lists were never the point; they are what love looks like when it is trying to be useful. Let Milo help with Biscuit. Let June choose the story. You don’t have to get any of it right. No service, please: a small gathering at the house, and no flowers; give to the Oakland Public Library Foundation instead. Remind the kids about Aunt Joan on May 19th and Grandpa on August 4th. Yours is November 22nd. You will say not to bother. Do bother.
