dear bopu

I am writing you a letter now, now that it is too late. a day late and a dollar short, and you could have used the dollar.

I remember living with you on madtom road, and the lilacs and tiny daisies and fat bumblebees across from your house, and the way summertime smells in the vermont countryside. it rains like the seas are falling out of the sky sometimes and everything is green and the air is chewable, but at night it is cool on my skin as I would read and you would drink and the game would play on your little television.

you leant me your car anytime I asked and it was your car I drove when I discovered western massachusetts and fell in love, and your car I drove when I picked up the hairy hitchiker at the general store down the street because he reminded me of what my father must have looked like at his age.

thank you for my father, for the amazing man he is and the amazing father he is to me. I am sure you are at least partially to blame for the softness of his heart and his willingness to fiercely love his only daughter. did you know he cried on the phone today, when he told me the news? that you died in your sleep, hands crossed, finally able to breathe in whatever ether you found yourself?

who will take me to northshire bookstore now, bopu? what will I do with the crystals you used to buy me? the cards, the letters, the books I never read, the books I did read, the jewelry? you bought me my first (and only, so far) pocket watch. I still use the box.

I mourned your death before you died, but now that you are gone I regret. my family is so small, and so scattered, and there are so few that I wish to know, and now that you are gone I am feeling stretched thin already. I will possibly have more to say later, after it hits me that you are truly gone, but maybe then I will just cry.