My dad died last year, and the end of 2017 had me thinking a lot about that. So I wrote him a letter. I don't know if it's of value to anyone but me, but I'm sharing it on the off chance it is.
I know you’ll think this is ridiculous. Writing a letter to a dead person is something you would’ve filed under “Complete Wastes of Time” or “Mystical Hocus-Pocus.” It kind of goes against all the atheistic pragmatism you preached, but that sensible stuff...
So here we are.
Assuming you were wrong about the afterlife — “dead is dead” was your analysis, if I remember correctly — you’re probably wondering why I’m sharing this letter. “Who would want to read all that stuff?” you’d say.
Or maybe this one’s just for me. Maybe it’s just something I have to write because that’s what I do. Maybe it’s selfish. I don’t know.
And I can’t get that to feel OK.
I find myself drifting back into that hospital room where we said goodbye too often.
And I wonder where you might be now. I know, I know — dead is dead. But give me this one, dad.
I suppose, for those of us left behind, that’s the best we can do — envision the people we loved so much existing on in a state of utter joy.
Happy New Year, Dad. I’ll be in touch, always.
And whether you like it or not, I’ll picture you riding the occasional shaft of light that bends through my window.