By Paul Rosseau
In the upper left-hand corner of the letter, chicken-scratched dots have been dabbed in blue pen as a means to test the ink. Under that, Dear Frank has been thoroughly scribbled out as if it were wrapped in the wool of a cartoon sheep. Directly under that, two quick and precise lines strikethrough the false start, Dear Daddy-O.
Dear Dad,
I know we don’t usually talk like this but I figured now would be as good a time as any. I was thinking, remember in 2013 when you asked me to make you an eBay account and I said What For but you wouldn’t tell? And then it turned out you couldn’t live another day without owning that baseball movie you said was an all-timer starring the best to ever do it (your words), Mr. Kevin Costner, so you scoured through every listing for hours and hours hunched over an inch away from the screen until you settled on a username of a seller your gut told you, you could trust and eight days later (I think shipping and processing took longer than expected, MooVeesMadeEZ had to take his great aunt to see a foot specialist for an in-grown nail unexpectedly) and $36 lighter (bidding war) you finally laid your mitts on a gently used VHS copy (which then afterwards I told you about Blu-ray discs and how we could have easily just drove to the Best Buy a week ago where I worked and taken care of all this) of For the Love of the Game but talk about putting the cart before the horse, I had just thrown away your VHS player a month earlier because I was gonna hook you up with the latest (employee-discount) so eBay comes to the rescue yet again and wouldn’t you know it, MooVeesMadeEZ’s great aunt Janet was recovering well, in fact, I think I remember him saying he was taking her to play pull tabs that weekend at Wild Bills, and then I said to you, What a Nice Young Man, and you slapped your belly and said you knew it from the start. That was so dumb. But also kinda awesome. You knew exactly what you wanted (which is hard enough) and you got it, you stubborn son of a Bitch. It was so great to see you happy and sorta take part in that happiness, even if you didn’t notice me or say Thanks or That Was Fun or anything. Which sucked, I won’t lie. Maybe it was my age and your old-timey idea of authority. Maybe you felt embarrassed that a teenager knew more about something than you. Or maybe you just didn’t realize all the times I pitched in. Anyway, just writing to tell you that, your movie is on Netflix now, which is like this whole other thing called streaming that I’m sure you would’ve hated. I might try to watch it on your birthday but that kind of stuff is still hard for me (celebrating your life vs being sad that you’re gone vs wondering if I ever really knew you at all).
Love you and miss you a lot,
Denny
Held often, the bottom of the paper is worn and crinkled. The closing is smudged as if a finger has traced the lines several times over.
Paul Rousseau is a disabled writer from Minnesota with work in Roxane Gay's The Audacity, Catapult, X-R-A-Y, Waxwing, JMWW, Hobart After Dark, Okay Donkey, Jellyfish Review, Pithead Chapel, and Wigleaf, among others. You can read his words online at Paul-Rousseau.com and follow him on Twitter @Paulwrites7.