In all fairness, I really should. His story needs to be told. But he doesn’t reeeeeeely fit in my demented fruit-bat world, so I’ll just tell it here.

Years ago, I had a gentleman come to the door and ask if he could mow our yard. It was summer, it was hot, and I said I’d give him a shot. He came every two weeks (sooner if I called him) and would mow, run the weed eater, and even trim the trees for us.

I only had one rule for him, and he swore he’d follow it.

“Never show up drunk..”

We hadn’t been sober that long, and I wouldn’t have alcohol or anyone who’d been in it on our property. Besides, a drunk and a weed-eater don’t mix.

I’ll never forget the day he broke his word. He pulled up in his truck, parked almost in the middle of the street, and was so wasted that he could barely drag the mower from the back of his truck.

I hit the door like a heartbroken freight train and I fired him. I didn’t yell, I didn’t show any anger. I told him I knew there was a good man underneath the booze … but until he figured it out for himself, he had to go.

He cried. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. I knew he needed to be around someone who’d decided on sobriety, but I had to stick to the rule I’d given him. I had to.

Less than two weeks later, a friend of his came to our door to ask if we still needed someone to mow. I told him no, and he told me my guy had been sent to prison. Again.

I cried for him again that night.

Flash forward almost nine years, to the knock on my door.

You see where this is going?

I didn’t recognize him. Nice haircut, new glasses, some meat on his bones, Light in his eyes, and a smile like a happy little boy. I attack hugged him in our front yard and we cried on each other’s shoulders.

We talked for a long time that day. He told me what he’d gone through, how he’d finally made the decision to get clean, to give it up and live instead of just exist, and …

“I just wanted you to know I heard you. Everything you said that day, I heard you.”

Oh stop it. I’m not crying, you are.

I saw him at the store this afternoon. He seems to turn up every time I’m questioning my purpose here on this earth.

He grabbed me in a huge hug and thanked me again for believing in him when he didn’t. He just cleared eleven years clean and sober, he’s got a good job, and he’s “never been sick, not once.”

That’s not all his story, but someday soon, I may ask him to sit down and tell it again so I can write it.

I guess the reason I wrote this is — be kind. You never know whose life you might have helped save.

**

Engage autopilot.

Phase in Longest Day protocol.

Run program.

Sit.

Wait.

Let the hospice nurse in. She didn’t have a reason to be there other than she cared about our family and wanted to be with us awhile.

Doorbell.

The nurse lets in the hospice chaplain. Nice guy. He didn’t argue the week before when he offered to counsel me and I growled, “Not now.”

Eat? No mental record if I did or not.

Talk nonsensical bullshit with the siblings and the grandchildren. File the anger away for later.

Make sure Mom still gets her medicine.

Feel the cold blasts of air as I walk through the ghosts waiting around her bed. 

Wonder which one threw the decorative wall cross across the breezeway several weeks before. Figure it was Faye. She would do that just to hear me cuss.

Wait some more. 

Pace.

Sit.

TV. Feels wrong; Mom hates stupid lip-synch shows like this. But it beats the 24-hours of LifeLock infomercials that day she wouldn’t relinquish the remote.

Check the clock. 

Time: 9:30.

“Guys?”

Oh dear God no…

Feel her soul slip past me. Feel the other ghosts leave the room.

Feel my sweet Papa puff up with pride as he walks her Home.

Disconnect.

Make a few calls that all sound the same.

“The fight’s over.”

Run from the pain for a very, very long time.

**

Five years. 

Where the hell did five years go? 

I miss you so much, Momma

I’ll write the other one tomorrow.

Kisses – the Author

**

Five years ago, right about now, I embarked on the Longest Night of My Life. Ten weeks of worry, of tears, of rage were coming to an end … and the light at the end of the tunnel was nothing but another fucking train. I was exhausted on every level, but I had to go on just a little while longer.

Mom still needed me.

From March 18^th until that night, we’d all watched our mother/grandmother/Nana slip away from us little by little. Pancreatic cancer, if anyone is curious. From nothing, just some fatigue, to Stage 4 and Nothing We Can Do. She wanted to cross over at home, so we made it happen. It put deep scars in the family (some I don’t think will ever heal), but we made it happen.

She’d been awake, alert, and directing her army of children just a day before. Now, my brother, his wife, and I watched and waited, giving her pain medicine at the intervals hospice directed, and wondered when the battle would end.

I knew it was coming. Several days before, I’d seen my grandfather walk into the living room where Mom lay in her hospital bed. Papa died when I was four, but he was easy to recognize.

She was always Daddy’s girl, and he’d come to bring her Home. I could hear the clock ticking faster.

We agreed on each of us sleeping two hours and trading shifts; that way, she wouldn’t miss her medicine. I sat on the Evil Heathen Demon Couch (that’s another story; ask me about it later) and watched, waiting, ready to help if she showed any sign of being in pain.

Did I do right by you, Momma? I remember asking the not-so-empty room that night. The ghosts didn’t answer, and neither did she. I tried my hardest even as a kid. I didn’t shirk curfew. I did my chores even though she was never pleased with how I dusted the furniture. As soon as I was old enough to work, I contributed to the house.

If I went out, got drunk, or did anything else even partly stupid, I made sure I stayed at a friend’s house. I wasn’t perfect, just clever.

I watched, I waited, and I wondered if Heaven was real. I wondered if she knew I was there. I wondered if she knew her Daddy was waiting.

No, wait, that’s not true. I knew she knew Papa was there. She was just waiting for the right time to go.

Soon, my brother came to tag in, and I went to the back bedroom to try and sleep. I thought I wouldn’t, but I did. Deep.

The Longest Night came and went.

The sun rose.

It wasn’t time yet.

I settled back in to wait.

If you know me, you know why every page has that as the first sentence. I’ve been forced to forget my name too many times. And I’m afraid it’s going to happen again.

This time, I won’t make it back to who I am.

This is all on me. My life has been nothing but a rising body count. My friend, my lover, my … it’s still so hard to say it … my son won’t be safe as long as I’m here.

I’m losing time again, just like I did when I escaped the Institute. It doesn’t make sense; I don’t know who’s taking the front. I only hope they’re listening to me, to “us,” and not to those bastards at Windhaven.

If you’re reading this while I’m writing it, please, don’t do anything stupid. I know the Senator tripped the suicide trigger before I shot him in the face. We can’t turn it off on our own, but we can ignore it until we’re done. WE ARE NOT DONE. Please, hold on. Whoever you are, you’re worthy of life, just like I am. You can choose. Please hear me. Don’t listen to them. Our time isn’t up. There’s a young life out there, and he needs us.

Hold on. We’ll get them all. I promise.

© 2021 Leigh Grissom

The Harvest Moon reached its zenith, and the Crow landed on his windowsill, just like he knew it would.

He extended his bloodied hand, the moonlight illuminating the pentacle he’d carved into his palm. The bird squawked as if it understood the gesture.

“Tell her.” he said. “Tell her I’ve renounced the Bargain. Tell her my memory is clouded. Tell her I’m aging. Fast. If she still wants a shot at me, she’d better take it soon. I’m done. Go.”

The Crow fled, leaving him alone with the aching pain in his palm. He thought about bandaging the wound, even icing it to slow the bleeding, but was it necessary?

Nah.

No one held a grudge quite like her. When she got his message, she’d come, and it would end. Until then, the pain would keep him sharp.

He glanced in the mirror as he paced. Wrinkles, “laugh lines” that no one really found funny, were already forming around his eyes. Streaks of silver crawled through his once dark brown hair, and he wondered if the ladies at the high school would find him “distinguished” now.

He thought crazily about calling the school and leaving a message for the nurse. “Hey, sorry, need a permanent substitute to cover my classes. I’m aging at the rate of a decade an hour and don’t think I’ll be up to teaching again ever. Don’t pick Mr. Leslie. He’s a douchebag. Bye.”

He barked a laugh and looked out the window. She had to have heard the Crow’s message by now. If she picked his last night alive to ignore him…

“Come on, you bitch.” he muttered. “I’m tired. Enough is enough.”

KNOCK-KNOCK.

He opened the door. “That was quick.”

She regarded him, her copper eyes showing little emotion. Her blood-red dress matched her lipstick, and he remembered the last time they’d danced—

No. Not now.

She smirked. “You summoned me. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He moved away from the door. “You and I both know that’s a myth.”

“Very true, but it makes the mortals feel safer.” She stepped inside. “It’s been much too long, eternal thorn in my side. I thought Crow was kidding when he said you wanted to see me.”

“It’s true. How have you been?”

She snorted. “Oh, save it. You were never good at small talk. What’s your name now?”

“John Gardner.”

“Nice. It sounds very noble.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “But I won’t call you that.”

He chuckled. “I know.”

She walked around his living room, taking in what little he had for furniture, and even less for decoration. “Still roughing it, I see. Any hidden weapons I should know about?”

“I was never one for feng shui. And no. I told you in my message I’m done.”

She picked up one of his books and absently leafed through it. “I thought it couldn’t be true, you know. The mighty vampire hunter revoked his Bargain. Relinquished his eternal youth.” She returned the book to the shelf and walked back to him. “Chose to die after all this time.” She touched his face, tracing the lines forming at the corners of his lips. “Mortality doesn’t suit you. Why would you do such a thing?”

He caught her hand in his. “I can’t do this anymore. This needs to end.”

Her ruby lips parted, and the tip of her tongue danced across her fangs. “Oh, it won’t end, my dear. But you really should have called for me sooner. Now you’ll be old forever.”

He breathed in her scent. Sandalwood, with a hint of copper just underneath. Sensual and menacing, just as she was the day they met.

He grinned. Time to argue.

“You couldn’t live with me when we were both mortal. You think I’ll be any less a pain in your ass if you turn me? You sure there’s no other way to punish me for doing what I was told?

Her laughter echoed in the room. Outside, a wolf howled as if in response.

“I don’t believe it! You called me here to kill you!” She placed a hand on his chest and lightly pushed him away. “And you thought I’d do it! You really think I’m that noble?” She whirled away from him and sat down on his couch, wrinkling her nose at the puff of dust that rose to greet her. “Why, after all the blood you’ve shed, did you think I would help you shuffle off this pathetic mortal coil?”

He shrugged. “Wishful thinking.”

“Gods, you are exasperating! At least you still have that ass.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Come, sit. Talk to me. There’s no escape, so we may as well catch up before I make you my slave.”

“As you wish.” He joined her on the couch. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about you. What are you in this lifetime?”

“You’ll laugh.”

 “I won’t.”

 “I’m a high school physics teacher.”

 She lied. She laughed until tears welled in her eyes. “A teacher. You. And children, no less! Does teaching young ones make up for losing your —”

“Don’t.” he snapped.
She bit her lip. “Oooh, that nerve is still raw. I suppose I can understand. Withdrawn.” She ran her hand along his thigh. “Tell me about the Bargain.”

“He called it a Bargain, but it was really a job offer I couldn’t refuse.” He winced, remembering that day. “The alternative was a lot worse. I had to say yes.”

“Regardless, I didn’t think it could be broken. But here you are, mortal once more. What did it take to cancel it?”

He lifted his bloodied hand. He’d been so focused on her that he’d forgotten it hurt. “This.”

Her pupils dilated, and her expression shifted from amused to hungry. “May I?”

“I’m in no position to deny you.”

She lifted his hand to her lips, and lightly ran the tip of her tongue across the blood pooling in his palm. She shivered, and hungrily licked his hand clean. He closed his eyes, holding back the moan he refused to give her the pleasure of hearing. Maybe being a slave to her bidding might not be so –

No, dammit! Focus!

She sat back and leisurely wiped a drop of his blood from the corner of her mouth. “I always dreamed you’d taste like fine wine. I was right.” She lightly kissed his cheek. “I have missed you.”

“Liar.”

She laughed. “Okay, maybe I am still a little mad at you. What happened to … her?”

He scowled. “Can we just talk about us?”

“You’re so touchy in your old age.” She patted his leg, and lazily draped one of her own across his lap. “Withdrawn again. Maybe I should just take you now, so we can leave here and start your eternal damnation early.”

He gave her the little-boy grin he knew drove her mad. “May I have until just before sunrise?”

A sly smile played across her lips. “Why?”

“I haven’t been mortal for a very long time. Give me just a few hours. Please.”

She gazed into his eyes. “Bastard. I never could refuse you. Fine.” She stood. “How long have you lived here?”

“About ten years.”

She walked over to look at some photographs he kept on the mantel. They were all pictures with his students, some at academic events, some of his patented photobombs in the physics lab. He glanced at his palm while she perused his memories. Her saliva had sealed the wound. The scar would remain, but at least the pain had stopped.

She picked up a framed photo of him and the physics team he’d coached the year before. They’d won first place, the first time in the school’s history. The school board had been so grateful that there was talk of naming the lab after him when he retired. He wondered if they would still consider it after he didn’t show up for work on Monday.

“It’s easy to tell how much the students enjoy you. You always were good with children.” She glared at him. “How many of mine have you killed?”

 That caught him off guard. “Why ask that now?”

 “I need to know.”

 “Hundreds of thousands, give or take. I kept telling you to stop turning them.”

She placed the picture back on the mantel. “None of them deserved what you did to them.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Back in 1775, I heard a legend I didn’t believe for a second. Did you really pretend to be Paul Revere?”

He laughed, remembering the real Paul Revere bound and gagged in his barn. It didn’t take much convincing after he let him go to take the credit and his place in history, especially after showing him the severed head of a vampire. He’d even shared drinks with Revere shortly before he died. Nice guy.

“Yes. Yes I did. Staked fifty that night, including your mate. What was his name? Lionel?”

She stiffened. “So … that was you.”

“Who else would it have been?”

“It’s a shame. I did love him, a little.”

Damn. He’d hoped that would be enough to push her to end him, but it didn’t work. Her expression was still serene, with no hint of the beast waiting just below the surface.

You’re not going to give me a way out…

She turned to him, and her smile chilled and warmed him at the same time. “And yet, you never came for me. Why?”

“You know why.”

“Surely he tried to send you.”

He nodded. “He tried. Many times.”

“What did you tell him?”

He shook his head in mock frustration. “I told him I would. But you were ‘just too difficult to find.’”

She laughed and sat down beside him again. “You’re the only one who could ever lie to him and get away with it.” She traced her fingers along his upper arm. “You’ve been working out. Maybe I’ll wait until you’re the right level of ‘silver fox’ to turn you.”

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Maybe I can do more than just age in front of you.” He wiggled his eyebrows, remembering how it always made her laugh.

She gasped. “Am I hearing things? Flirting? You?” She giggled happily. “What is it you’re proposing, ‘John Gardner?’”

He rolled his eyes. The bitch even made finger quotes sexy. He slid off the couch and knelt in front of her. His knees ached when he did it. Damn, arthritis so soon?

He took her hands in his. “You’re still just as beautiful as I remember.”

She regarded him with a softness he hadn’t seen in a thousand years. “Keep that up, and I might let you remember your real name.”

He took one of her hands and kissed each fingertip. “I did all I could to please you, once. I didn’t know enough. I wasn’t man enough. Will you let me try one last time?”

Her eyes darkened, and she licked her lips. “I can’t refuse a dying man’s request. And it’s true … I never could stay mad at you.”

“My Queen.” He stood, ignoring the pain in his hip that echoed his knees, and pulled her to her feet. “I’ve had a lot of time to learn new things.”

“Prove it, Hunter.”

He gently placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “I will, your Highness.” He leaned down and captured her lips with his. She moaned into his kiss, and snaked her arms around his neck as his tongue tangled with hers. He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Is that a yes?” he whispered in her ear.

“Gods … yes. Show me what you’ve learned.”

He carried her down the hall to his bed and laid her across it. He stood back, admiring her body. “My beautiful queen…”

She raised herself onto her elbows and smiled up at him. “Mmmm … flattery will get you everywhere. Undress for me.”

He obeyed, pulling his T-shirt over his head, and took the time to trace his fingers down his chest. Even his few chest hairs were already gray.

“Skin for skin … your turn.” he told her.

She stood up and turned her back to him. “Some help, vampire killer?”

“As you command.”

He moved her hair and slowly pulled the zipper down. He slipped the crimson dress off her shoulders and kissed his way down the side of her neck. She sighed softly, and let the dress fall to the floor. He reached around and gripped her firm breasts, running his thumbs over her nipples.

“Our time is short, lover.” she said, her voice hoarse with arousal. “Take me.”

He bit down on her ivory shoulder and she moaned with pleasure. He guided her back to the bed and quickly shrugged out of his jeans. “Lie back.”

She pushed herself back on the bed and he gently pushed her legs apart. One touch stole a whimper of need from her. Without thinking, he offered her his wrist.

“Not yet … I want this time to last.”

He smiled. “I have hours, my Queen. I intend to use them.”

She smirked. “Hours? Can you hold out that long?”

Ouch. “Let’s find out.”

She giggled. “I love this new you, ‘John Gardner.’”

He almost forgot himself and took her quickly, the way he did when they were together, before immortality claimed them both. Several deep breaths calmed him, and he willed himself to wait as she writhed under his touch. Moving too quickly, not paying attention to her needs, was the reason she ultimately left him so long ago.

That wouldn’t happen tonight.

He climbed onto the bed and lay next to her, lazily running his tongue over her nipples. His fingers explored her, stroking, touching, lightly scratching, until she whimpered again.

“What went wrong?” she whispered. “How could you have picked her over me?”

He tickled her ribs until she pushed his hand away. “I didn’t pick her, remember? It was arranged. Assembled. And you left me.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, I suppose that’s true. You were a self-absorbed man-beast.”

He kissed her softly. “You’re right. I should have worshipped you like the goddess you are.”

“Ooooh … you called me a goddess! Saying that will make your boss angry.”

He held up his scarred palm. “He isn’t listening now.”

“Sometimes I still miss you.”

He wavered, tempted, but…

No. Time’s up.

Finally, he managed to say, “It’s my fault. I should never have taken the Bargain. I would have died and been out of your hair thousands of years ago.”

She smiled. “Did you just say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me?”

He grinned. “Oh, part of this is your fault, too, your Highness.”

“I guess I was kind of a bitch.”

“I won’t argue that.”

She playfully slapped at his chest. “Jerk. Take me before I take you.”

“As you command.”

He rolled on top of her. Her body tensed with pleasure as he slid inside her slowly, and he knew it had to be now. It didn’t matter that she’d given him until sunrise. He had to do it now, while her guard was down, while his love for her was greater than it had ever been.

We would have made it. We would have lived, grown old, died together … if I’d been a better man.

Now his time was almost over.

He leaned down to kiss her, thrusting deep as he did, pushing her to the edge. She gave in to him, her eyes closed, her hands gripping the headboard of his bed so hard the wood splintered.

He slid his right hand under one of the pillows, almost hoping it wouldn’t be there. But it was.

I’m so sorry…

“I love you!” she cried.

“I love you, too.” He pushed himself up to his knees to get the leverage he needed.

She opened her eyes and saw the stake in his hand. “What – no!”

He drove the stake into her heart, using his weight to drive it all the way through her body. She screamed and fought to pull it free, but it was too late. She looked up at him, her eyes clouded with pain and surrender.

“Adam … how could you?”

He pushed himself off her with rapidly-fading strength. He could feel his body breaking down, crumbling to ash as she lay dying beside him.

“I had to, Lilith. We’ve gone on too long.”

“We could have gone on forever.”

“No we couldn’t, and you know it. The world has to heal from us both.”

“You’ve killed me. You’ve … killed all my children.”

He could feel her blood seeping into the sheets underneath them. No matter. There’d be no sign of either one of them soon.
“I know.”

“He put you up to this, didn’t he?” She felt for his hand. Her grip was weak. “Adam…”

“Nope. This was all me.”

Her laugh was cut off by a gasp of pain. “Bastard … I did love you.”

“I’ll love you always.”

She fell silent. He lay there, watching the ceiling fan spin, and wondered how long his death would take. As his heart slowed, he knew it didn’t matter. He’d done what he had to do. He’d freed her from her darkness.

He’d freed himself from his own.

As the pain finally left him, he hoped, if the whole Heaven thing was real, they would find each other again. Maybe she wouldn’t hate him.

But then again, after the whole apple incident … Adam wasn’t sure he’d be allowed in.

I never thought I would lose friends, even internet ones, over a snowstorm. But I’ve quietly unfollowed several who have laughed, made jokes, said things like “suck it up, buttercup,” and referred to us as “Silly Southerners” while people all across the state are without power and water, and have been for days.

People are dying, and they think it’s funny.

The temptation to write a Twitter thread for the ages is strong. I want so much to tell them to go fuck themselves with an iron stick. But, being the non-confrontational, “don’t engage in a battle of wits with an unsympathetic asshole” person that I am, I hit the unfollow button and continued on about my life. I’m glad they’re finding reasons to laugh during such an awful time. In the wake of a pandemic and a godawful winter storm, everyone needs a giggle or two to warm them up.

Just don’t expect me to be there when you’re doing it at the expense of people who aren’t wired to handle weather like this.

Hang in there, friends. The warm is coming.

Yeah, that happened to me yesterday.

I won’t go into what the last six weeks have been like for me. I went on an emotional, mental, and ultimately physical rollercoaster that left me an absolute wreck. Highest high, lowest low, migraines, panic attacks – I hit a wall and couldn’t keep going.

Yesterday, I found my center. It was still there, waiting for me to quit being stupid. I can honestly say I haven’t felt this good in months.

You want to know what happened?

Here is the Cliff Notes version: I forgot who I am.

Now, I’ve never had a really concrete identity. But this time? I completely forgot who I am at my inner core. I took my eyes off my passion and put them on my obligation. I gave far too much to a day job that, if I died, would replace me before I could be cremated. I wasted several truck-loads of soul energy on a place that wouldn’t notice I was gone until the reports were late. And I did it for six solid weeks.

Yesterday, alone in my office, it hit me.

I hate it there. If I’d let my mounting frustrations consume me much longer, I would have left, sure – and would have hated the new job just as much if not more. Just like I’ve hated any other job I’ve had over the years.

Why? Because it’s a JOB. It’s an obligation. It doesn’t fuel me. It doesn’t make me happy. It’s not my passion.

I’m a writer who has to work to keep the electricity on. I’m not a worker who writes in the rare moments she can put a complete sentence together.

I.

Am.

A.

Writer.

In that moment, sitting there alone, my heart rate leveled out, the nagging tightness in my chest eased, and I took the first deep breath I’d taken in six weeks. And last night, I slept like a rock.

I’m done giving that office my mental and soul energy. I’ll still work my butt off. I’ll still give it my usual 110% even though I know I’ll never be rewarded with anything except more work. And, if an opportunity should arise somewhere else, yeah, I’ll no doubt leave.

But – when it’s all said and done, when I’m locking the office door at the end of the day and heading for the time clock, I’m a writer.

I’m a writer.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got worlds that need attention. Y’all lock up and I’ll see you back here soon.

On December 8th, 1980, I heard the news on the little AM radio on the headboard of my bed.

I was nine, and John Lennon was dead.

I knew the Beatles and I knew their music. I knew their solo work. I knew “Watching the Wheels” was an amazing song. I knew all the lyrics to “I Am The Walrus,” and I was damn proud of it.

I was late to the party discovering Pantera. I was too young to go to the club here in town where they played before they were signed. But after I embraced my metal blood, I made damn sure I was versed in their music. I grew to love those Abbott boys who loved their fans as much or more than we loved them.

I remember the news story. I remember the footage from the club. I was 33, and I felt like the music world stopped in pure horror.

I will never understand the minds of madmen, no matter how much research I do. Both acts were horrific, violent, and … senseless.

On the same day, in the same way, two icons were taken. And I miss them both.

Thank you for the music, gentlemen.

Kids, if you don’t know Dimebag, fix that.

If you don’t know John Lennon, you weren’t raised right and I’m ashamed of your grandparents. Get off my website and don’t come back until you understand “Imagine” wasn’t his only hit.

I’ll check on you later.

Rock on.

Seven months since this fucking virus locked the doors of the nursing home.

Seven months since I’ve seen my father for more than the occasional FaceTime call (something I’m forever grateful to his nurse for setting up for us.)

At long last, the VA hosted a conference call to tell the loved ones some new rules, however strict, to let us see our family members. I called, I got on the list, and I went today. I knew I couldn’t hug him, but at least I could get eyes on him. At least I could talk to him.

The years since his stroke in 2013 leading up to today? I never missed a week. I promised my mother before she passed on in 2016 that I’d look after him. I made sure I was there every week, every Father’s Day, every holiday, and especially his birthday. I swore he’d never feel alone. He’s not my biological father, but he’s the only one I’ve ever known.

I know, I know. This virus wasn’t my fault. The lockdown wasn’t my fault. But I still feel like I failed. Today was going to be a breakthrough for me. I’d be back with my daddy!

If I cry, don’t tell anyone.

There was an outbreak in the assisted living part of the complex — staff and residents both. My father isn’t in that part, but they locked down the whole thing, retested vets and staff alike, and shut down all face-to-face visitation without letting anyone know.

I saw him, but I could only do it through the window.

Don’t judge me — I’m extremely grateful for today, but yeah, I’m whining a little. It’s just hard, because my dad is almost deaf, so having to struggle to hear me through a cell phone was tough. He did smile, and wave, and tell me he loved me, which lifted my spirits tremendously … but that damn pane of glass, the specter of the virus … I’ve never felt so relieved, so angry, so helpless, and so fucking heartbroken all at once.

I love you so much, Daddy. I really hope you don’t think I’m a bad kid for not coming in. It’s not my fault.

If you haven’t read his work … fucking fix that.

Now.

Start with “The Illustrated Man” and wind your way to “Fahrenheit 451” (I’m ashamed of how many times I had to type Fahrenheit before autocorrect stopped screaming) — and do your psyche a favor and take a rest stop with “Something Wicked This Way Comes.”

After that? Keep going. He left us a wealth of words.

Happy Birthday to the Master.