Hey, Dad, we haven’t had our Sunday night call in a while, so I thought I would update you. I always look forward to Sunday night.
“Washington calling.”
“How are you?”
“Not so bad, how’s yourself?”
That last part didn’t stay true for you, though.
First, we did manage to defeat Trump for re-election. Joe Biden, of all people. But of course Trump didn’t go away, and neither did his fascist movement. It’s touch and go.
Second, a plague hit the world called “Covid-19”. A little like flu, but much deadlier. It clobbered the elderly, both physically if they caught it, and emotionally because everyone had to isolate. No more having the grandkids pop in after school. Honestly, I don’t think you would have survived.
Next, you were completely correct about your friend RBG. She died about three weeks before it would have been impossible for Trump to replace her, and instead we got Amy Coney Barrett, just as you predicted. The Supreme Court wrecked gun control, specifically overturned Roe. The only good news from the Court is that Neil Gorsuch, terrible in every other way, turns out to be the biggest champion of Tribal Sovereignty the Court has ever seen. He wants to take the country back to 1850—including on Indian status. You would have found that very funny. I can see you laughing about it. Once RBG died, though, even that didn’t matter.
Your tribal citizen mentees Rick and Kevin said wonderful things about you to the newspapers, and Doug E. gave the best of many splendid eulogies at your memorial party. The firm still has a tribute to you on their main page.
Something else you would find hilarious: remember how you were always fighting with the assessor to lower your property taxes? Turns out he was right and you were wrong. The house went for way over asking, way over any assessment. Everyone wanted to acquire Mid-Century Modern in a sea of Colonials. And that was without our beautiful flowering peach tree. As we left to see you in the ICU that last day, we saw it had split and half had fallen over. Still beautiful, but the heart was failing, much like yours. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the house because of quarantines for that covid epidemic I mentioned, and I regret that. I have business in D.C. later this year, and the idea of staying in a hotel in my hometown is disorienting. We followed your instructions to sell the Gilliam—he just died—and that, too, went for more than you could imagine.
Speaking of your heart, your cardiologist looked peeved when it was clear you wouldn’t recover. I realize now that he and your kidney doctor were in something of a contest over whose organ would fail first, and that last dialysis session that drove your heart into failure was checkmate. Oh, yes, while on the subject of games, I made Life Master at bridge. I really wanted to do that with you, especially with your mind so clear right until the end. Sorry. Especially about not reading your signal for a diamond lead at the tournament in New York.
I retired end of 2019. I just did not want to work 40 hours a week for someone else any more.
I grew the traditional mourning beard, and I know you would get a laugh out of that, too, given that I’m not religious and you were downright anti-religious. It’s completely gray. After the prescribed year, I didn’t feel ready to shave. Two more years and I’m getting close. I still don’t understand how to live as an orphan. I think of you and Mom every day, but I know it’s about time to hang up.