Hi Dad,

I’m going to keep it brief, just one page, because I’ve got work to do. You always told me to let God handle it. My stressing over money, mainly. I’ve gotta say Dad, I still don’t believe it. Don’t see it. Don’t feel it. When you died, instead of a real, wooden door, you had a wolf hide hanging in the door frame. I think you just needed less than I do.

Remember all the times people threatened to turn you in for child endangerment? But they knew your love for me was pure, so they never did. I’m a little pissed at the mess you left me to clean up on the property, but that project is mostly done now. I had the shack burned to the ground. They did it for free for the practice. I’m still paying off the debt from the skid steer used for the mop up. The school bus is still there. Flat tires and all. I’m not sure what to do about it. Might just plant some grapevines in front and let nature take over.

By the way, Happy Birthday to you. You would have turned 64 today. When you were 8, heaven took you up and then spit you back out. I’m sure the angels said something like “You still have more work to do” or “You’re supposed to have a daughter.” I wonder if they said anything about a grandchild. When Autumn smiles intensely, her nose crinkles up, just like yours did. In those moments, she looks just like you, like us.

Her father and I aren’t together anymore, by the way. I never was big on the concept of marriage. That practically material thing they sold us in the movies. All leading up to an expensive wedding. (It was a good party though, and you only missed it by three weeks.) I’m poly now. Like you. Spitting image. Old man take a look at my life I’m a lot like you.

But I’m also my own person. When I left the relationship, it forced me to leave the woods. I miss the black walnut out back waving at me every morning. The birdsong in the mountains behind the farm. And you remember how the hillsides burst with fungi after the first good rain, right? I miss having a domain. I’ll get there again.

You’d laugh at the neighborhood I live in now. Call the people a bunch of yuppies. Embarrass me by wandering the quiet side streets, singing the Mahamantra out loud before pissing in someone’s rhododendron.

I cosplay as a South Eugene local. I tie my running shoes before powerwalking around listening to my podcasts, just like everybody else. I act like I’m not just renting the top story of a house at the bottom of the hill. I act like I, too, own a home overlooking the city. The people in this neighborhood, Dad, they pass out full sized candy bars on Halloween. Practically no one does their own yard work, they hire others to do it. And get this—they leave all their house lights on around the clock. This is so someone thinks they’re home and doesn’t break in. Can you imagine that? Being able to afford having your lights on 24-7, just to protect all your possessions? But they’re nice enough people. They let one guy rummage through their recycling for cans and don’t make a fuss about it. (I learned this the hard way when I ran outside and barked at him, “Get away from my car!” Then after my neighbor told me he was just looking for cans, I cried. Because I remember when we used to collect cans for money, too. Look how far I’ve come, Dad…Or maybe it’s how low I’ve gotten.)

Sometimes when I go on my fancy, sober walks, past million dollar homes, I think of what a miracle it is that I made it out of Rock Creek. Then I think of how much I want to go back to Rock Creek. Someday, I’m going to build a home on your land, Dad. Once I’m done pretending to be useful in the City. Once I’ve grown Autumn and set her on a path better than mine. Thank you for the lessons. I’ve written more than a page now. I hope you’re happy in your new, reincarnated earthly form, gaining more wisdom, maybe having more children. Oh, and one more thing, God’s not going to handle it, Dad. I am. I am through him. Hare Krishna. Amen. Goddamn.

Kiddo