Dear Dad,

My professor said… or I read in the paper yesterday… or… nothing. I wanted to start with some advice, good letters start with advice. I’ve been listening around for some; no one understands but us. No one understands but you, but me.

Dear Dad,

I’m having those cat dreams again. Mom steals my cat and puts it into a transformation bucket. It turns into a lamb or a tea bag or a sprout. It still meows and follows me around, even as a sprout.

Dear Dad,

The thing is, I remember us as a loud family. Music, laughter, engines, cranky old engines. But really we were quiet. No one was saying anything all that time. It was a matter of love without speech or feel, deaf claustrophobic love, brute stubborn love. Thank you for that love.

Dear Dad,

I keep starting, you’ll have noticed, but it never comes to a middle or an end. Those are the parts I’m afraid of.

Dear Dad,

I keep getting guacamole on my hands. I apologize for the mess, the spotty green stains. You should eat lots of avocados. They’re full of protein. They’ll help keep your weight up.

Dear Dad,

Remember when we didn’t talk about your colon? Wasn’t that a nice time?

Dear Dad,

I’ve been thinking about your teeth. About the first time I saw them there on the sink ledge, gooey and submerged. About how you lost them so young. How smooth your gums must have felt afterwards and how empty.

Dear Dad,

Have I told you how sorry I am that she left you? I’m so sorry. As sorry as if it had been me. We’re closer, she and I, but always I loved you more. Because I had to. Because you are me. And she is just herself.

Dear Dad,

At some point everyone is faced with the choice to either become a victim or to remain a person.

Dear Dad,

When you came out to visit, your smile looked good. I wanted to tell you, but it seemed a strange thing to say. Those implants must have been expensive. But your teeth are shiny now, sturdy. They’ll last a while.

Catie, age 25