Dearest Kathy,

Nobody warned me he’d be dead soon. What good would it have done?

When I am dying, will there be a warning?

When he died I wanted to be a famous architect.  Wanted to be assured that I’d be remembered.  What better reminder than an old house young people live in. But I live in an old house and I don’t know or care who architected it.  I don’t care who swung the hammer either.  When I die all the coffee will have been poured for nothing.  The breakfasts, all of them from when an airplane landed sauces into my lips and on my lips and on my chin and on my shirt.  From COOOOOkie-Crisp and whole milk from an orange tinged Cool Whip knockoff bowl (3 bowls to a box) will have been Consumed by the dead.  All the rolled steel cans of store brand Spaghetti-O’s that turned the Cool Whip bowls orange will have been rolled by hard leather hands, knuckles like knee caps, for nobody.  My dad has these knuckles. He will be dead soon too. Is he tallying now? Deciding if it was worth the slivers shimmering just below the dermis. I remember we once went to the Hoover Dam. On the highwater side, giant silver fish hovered just below the surface, waiting for feedings from tourists. I thought of the silver slivers in his hands quietly becoming part of him.  Whole hands get replaced by mitts, a catcher’s glove. Did he ever play baseball? Did he ever dream he could have a name that lived on? Did he? Does he? Should he care?

Should I.

Nobody warned me he’d be dead soon.

But he’s dead now and I guess that’s all that matters.