Tweets from the day of Amy's mother's wedding in Arkansas.

Amy packs up, leaves Washington state, and flies to Arkansas. Culture shock in 3...2...1. 24 hours of travel tweets.

For my friends in Atlanta, you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity coming up this weekend.

I'll be in Atlanta this weekend. With my mother.

Want to join us for a memorable dinner in which you get to sit at the table and threaten me by offering to tell her all the juicy, dirty stories we both know you know about me?

Saturday night, yo.

Dad -

I didn't really call you that while you were alive, and it feels strange to call you that now, but I didn't know any other way to start this letter.

I've become a person who grumbles at roadside memorials for victims of traffic accidents but who writes something about you every year on the anniversary of your death. I wondered about that for a number of years before I realized that I was closer to your death than I was to your life, and I've spent the years since trying to come to terms with your absence.

This entry covers it better than most:

Background to this email: Jeff's and my 10th anniversary is in late July. We found out last week that instead of the fall, as we'd been told, my mother's wedding would actually be on Saturday, August 2 in central Arkansas. We had made trip plans months ago, which required changing in order to make it to the wedding. (It's about a 7.5-hour drive each way from Huntsville to my hometown.)

The last part won't go over well. I have little doubt of that.

Mom -