Anyway, it's a moot point. Kind of. But maybe not. Maybe, just maybe, Dad is up there in the heavens, kicking it with his mom and Rod and Dean, and they are all looking down on me--in my earthbound bag of bones and skin with its pains and conditions--and silently shaking their heads with bemused expressions on their mugs. "Adam will be Adam," Dean says to Rod, and Nana and my dad nod their gaseous heads in agreement.
Well, Dad, I miss you, man. Your loss (or my loss, whichever makes more sense) comes to me in waves. It comes at times when I least expect it. It's like, I see something or something happens and, though we were never particularly close (I love you, of course), it may cross my mind that I want to share it with you and then I think to myself, oh yeah.... Dot, dot, dot. Such is life.
Anyway, happy sixty-ninth, Dad! Have a heavenly birthday, mi pee-aye-pee-aye. Love.