[dropcap]I[/dropcap] talk to you every Christmas. I’ve been doing that for a long time. The December after you died, I wrote you a poem, I was twelve. It was awful writing.
If you recall, I read it to you in the bathroom, with the door shut. I cried until I collapsed, sobbed so hard I lost hearing in my bad ear, and developed a headache. But then, you already know that.
If you’re out there, I mean.
I wish you’d waited until January to leave us. Or maybe spring. You might’ve granted us one last Christmas. We could’ve eaten too much sugar, then fallen asleep on the sofa. Instead, I sat out in the shed and tried to remember your face. I wore your coat so I could smell you.
Aw, hell. I don’t mean to make you feel bad.
The truth is, things are good. I’ve learned how to get along without you. I’m older, I wear reading glasses, I have a touch of arthritis. I have no major accomplishments, I drive a fifteen-year-old truck, and I don’t know whether you’d be proud of me. But I hope so.
We have a good life. I enjoy my work. I love my friends. And my wife. Oh, you’d like her; then again, she might aggravate the piss out of you. Or both.
Above all, I wish I had more to tell you. I’m sorry, I don’t.
But, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got things to do. I’ve got a busy day too. Nephews to see, ham to eat, jokes to tell. By the time today’s over, I’ll be exhausted from overeating, and doing magic tricks with a quarter.
You know, it’s too bad you can’t join us today. In fact, it’s a goddamn shame.
Merry Christmas,
Your son.