"Last week was pretty eventful. I turned 60 and you wrote me a letter. (This is my father) Evened out pretty good, I'd say. (Stranger, human being, sometime ghost) I'm so glad you wrote and I hope we will keep it going.
If I could through you, my secret garden, go threading bare feet carefully amongst your blooms and vines, I would with loving fingers brush away those fearsome thorns rioting like snakes in your grassy undergrowth
We downed that half-bottle of port for courage, pilfered from the pantry: Kool-aid chased with a bellyful of fire and then too-casually watched big-hair bands wiggle leather-clad asses on