Dearest loved one,
I know you think I have died, but I’m not gone. Death is just a four-letter word—although you might want to double check my math on that one.
Do you remember how in high-school science class your teacher talked about the first law of thermodynamics? Yeah, me neither.
So let me refresh your memory. Your teacher told you that energy could neither be created nor destroyed, but only transformed. Well, I get it now.
Nothing dies, not really. And that’s not religion, that’s science talking. In fact death doesn’t technically exist—at least not the way you think. Only change exists. Only transformation exists. Particles get disorganized, then reorganized, then re-re-reorganized.
But death? Nope.
Take flowers. They wither and become mulch, which then becomes topsoil, which then becomes minerals, which then becomes pH and soil salinity. Then, these elements reassemble themselves to become the building blocks for new flowers. On and on it goes.
Or how about water? Water forms clouds, clouds make rain, rain gathers in rivers and lakes only to be used
in swimming pools, iced tea, kitchen sinks, and vodka gimlets. Water then evaporates to become more clouds.
Now I ask you. Does that sound like dying?
Or maybe you can think about it like this. Long ago, when trains still ran through small towns, children would often run to the depots and watch the trains come and go. Do you remember those days? Children would marvel at the mighty engines with their clouds of steam and sounds of diesel and steel.
Then, it happened like this: Passengers would climb aboard. The train’s doors would close. The coach would disappear over the horizon. All those people vanished in a mere instant.
But were they gone? No way. They were just unseen. Death is like that.
I am no longer seen. You cannot touch me, but I am here beside you. I am still your dad,…