There is an empty seat in the trombone section tonight.

Richard Blonigan, affectionately known by me as Mr. B, was a man who wasn't related by any bond of blood, but was family all the same. More than an uncle, closer to a father - despite the fact that I have two others, my dad and stepfather, Brad. He was a musician, a salesman, a wonderful scoundrel, a generous heart, and master storyteller. He gave me his couch for three years, a haven to gather myself, and a kick in the butt when I needed it. It meant the world to me when he told me he was proud of me at my graduation from the AHT program at Hartnell.

He passed away in his sleep this morning after a few days of illness. It was unexpected - he had gotten worse in one respect, but had improved in so many others. I thought I would have years yet to listen to his stories, to laugh at his jokes and impersonations. To conspire with him against my mother. Laughter was a part of being around Mr. B. You couldn't help it.

I have so much to say about him, and right now I can't speak. I can barely type.

Dammit. More when I can do so without the screen being blurry.