It’s been twenty one years and I talk about it like it was yesterday.

I have boxes of odd things left over.

I do poetry in the same undefined style.

I scanned in your photographs that were left languishing in boxes

The clerics and philosophers say all I have to pay is my life to get a hug from you, to be able to sit and talk with you again.

I’m not ready to take that bet, to pay that price.

Not yet, but I’m sure it will be sooner than I might like.

Happy 94th Birthday Dad.  Sorry you’re not here to drink the toast with us.

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