Dad, A year has passed. It was a blink of an eye; an arduous and painful journey; a powerful, awakening stretch. There were times when I felt myself inching toward the cliff of dreadful feeling, and only by willfully walking there did it dissipate. And of course, then I’d be shanghaied by an image, a song, a film by one of my students. One of those brinks of despair was the gnawing message, “I let you die.” I did. And I know it was right, because I have your words on paper that describe the life not worth living. You had not lived that life for many months. You were diaper-clad, catheterized, pissing blood, and unable to move your legs at all. Remember the night the septic infection hit you like a train, the beginning of the end? That afternoon I put on “Winged Migration” the documentary about the birds flying, and your expression and the way you said, “that’s beautiful” spoke volumes. I think the freedom of those birds flying over land was beckoning. At least I hope that’s what it was...