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"I'm here."

"Thank you, Dad."

"I'm ok."

"I'm so glad you brought me here to tell me that."

"I love you, Dana."

"I know."

"It's beautiful here, you know. Someday you'll come here and we'll be together again."

"I know."

"I'm not dead."

"I know."

"I'm more alive than ever."

"I'm so happy to know that."

"It's just.... light here. I never knew."

"I know."

"So much I never knew. Never told you. But you know it all. You knew it before I did. You always knew."

"Dad, do you remember the sail boats?"

"Which ones? The whaler or the little sloops?"

"All of them, I guess. I can only remember the sloops."

"Oh! That's right, you can't see the whaler anymore. But you know. We stood on the bowsprit and were men, dreaming we could fly and that our arms were sails."

"And this time you flew."

"Yes, I did. I flew everything with wings. Darn near killed me."

"Dad, the airplane did kill you, don't you remember?"

"That? The plane didn't kill me, I left. Just left. I was done. Moving on, you know."

"I wish you didn't have to go."

"I know."

"What will we do next time? Where will we go now that we've flown?"

"I don't know."

"But we'll be together again, right? You'll wait? Please?"

"I don't know."

"I want to know."

"I don't know. You know that."

"I know that. But I want to know. I want us to be musicians and travel the world together. Free like we tried to be this time."

"We were free. Remember? Skiing? Flying? Swimming?"

"I know."

"You want more."

"Yeah."

"You always want more. That's what I love about you. You never let them take away anything that's yours."

"Yeah. Even you."

"Even me."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Dana. I'll be here."

"I know."

Written for writing workshop (Kripalu, April 2011)