Ha Son Nguyen November 25, 1981 – September 8, 2026 There are some people you cannot explain neatly. Ha was one of them. He was funny, sarcastic, complicated, deeply loved, sometimes impossible, and completely unforgettable. He could make me laugh when I wanted to kill him, frustrate me beyond belief, make me worry sick, and somehow still be the person I wanted beside me at the end of the day. We were not perfect people. We were two imperfect people, made of flaws and good in

I asked for a shirt. I ached for the scent of your skin. To smell you. Perhaps that would translate into a “Ghost” movie experience. Here comes “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers. This was going to be my moment: to cry, to smell your hypnotic scent. Wait. You did not wear women’s perfume. I certainly have never worn three-dollar streetwalker special, on sale for one at Dollar General. I love streetwalkers. I love them, especially when they find respite from the stre

You watched me rebuild after you tore me down. You watched me learn to walk again. You watched me learn to climb. You watched me buy my house. You watched me fight to get my son back. And somehow, along the way, you convinced me that those victories belonged partly to you. They didn’t. They were mine the entire time. You had a front-row seat to my rebuilding, and instead of protecting what I was becoming, you tried to sabotage it. You used your position in my life to take fro

This is an out-of-body experience. You said you’d be there. That it was us, us against the world. You died on Monday on the way to my house. You ran into a pole going way too recklessly fast. You were 2.5 hours late and probably trying to make up time. I hate you for that. You left me with this big mess. What am I going to do with this mess? How do I help Jackson through this? You have concert tickets on the 22nd. He wanted to know if you were still taking him. He keeps calli