Here we are, three years to the day since I last heard your voice. Three years since I called you in UW Hospital to tell you about our canine acquisition, Wiley. Three years since I told you I loved you without having to say it to an empty room.
A lot has happened in those three years, Dad. Much of it is documented here. The end result is that the firstborn son that you once carried around Europe in a backpack, the kid you did Cub Scouts and YMCA Indian Guides with, the boy you taught to be a man, is doing just fine. You would love that I'm back to working in my chosen field, which you once invested in by helping me finish my first film. You would be amazed at the growth and maturity in your grandchildren. You would celebrate the huge leaps ahead in my own emotional evolution.
You would be proud of me, Dad.
You ARE proud of me.
I think about you every day, and although you're not here physically to share my joys and my darkness, I can feel your presence in those quieter moments. After all, energy never dies; it just changes form.
Now as I'm about to close, I have my '70s playlist going (as it reminds me most of growing up with you). And wouldn't you know it, Three Dog Night's "One" just came on. You're a funny guy, Pop.