Dear Dad,
It's your 76th birthday and I am trying on the clothes I will wear to your funeral. In my desk drawer is the birthday card I bought for you a month ago. The joke on the card is a pun so bad that even you couldn't have thought of it. I'll drop it in the ground with you on Saturday, along with rocks from your yard, sawdust from your workshop and petals from the flowers I brought back to Texas from your house.
As I type this, I am quite certain that you're somewhere telling off-color jokes to some religious deity, or arguing with Einstein or just enjoying the company of those who left before you.
We lost you a long time ago, Dad. But it still hurts to know that you aren't out there, waiting to intentionally call me by my sister's name when I phone you, you crabby bastard.
Love,
L