I worried about you every day, until we ran out of days.
I love you, Dad. Those are the last words you said to me the day before you killed yourself. They're also the last words you said to me in the first letter I wrote to you in this magazine, 24 years ago. Back then you were "Robbie" and I was "Daddy," and I never thought I could possibly love you more than I did. Then again, I never imagined I'd be writing this letter to you now. At least, not consciously. But down deep, I came to fear this day would come. On some level, I felt that, no matter how hard I tried, there was nothing I could do to stop it. The humble accessory deserves pride of place in your wardrobe. The best option for tundras and tundra-like areas. The great ship rolled magnificently on over the waves until the shore receded from sight and the clamoring gulls along with it, and Amanita and I clicked glasses again while I wished her a felicitous fortieth wedding anniversary, even as the ship's captain was receiving the command over the radio to return to port. And why? Because it had been discovered that one of the passengers—a man from Wuhan—had come down with a fever. Can you say COVID-19? I can. And I've said it all too many times since that first day. I can't help thinking that the term sounds more like some version of linoleum tiling you might install in the kitchen than a contagious disease that could burn through the world of humanity and force a ship as unconquerable as the Beryl Empress to become a floating prison. These ideas will hit the home run, score major points—you get the gist. It's the mattress you'll spend the rest of your life sleeping on. After years of high-profile shootings, policing in America is under more scrutiny than at any time in our history. Meanwhile, one company—which sells policy handbooks to police departments across the country—seems determined to give officers cover. |
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