First. I hope you had a happy birthday this week, and I apologize that I was only able to wish you a happy birthday over the phone under the grogginess of having just woken up. I hope it was a splendid day. Did Dad remember to get you a gift? Was it Detroit Red Wings themed? Another season of J.A.G.? A Tom Selleck Calendar? Oh the possibilities are endless with father. He is a good man - let him never forget that.
Second. You know how you enjoy reading my stories, but often get upset or worked up because of the pathos weaved throughout? I always argue that there's a redemptive piece to all of my stories, and that hope is just that, hope, found in the epiphany in the midst of mire. Well, I write this to inform you that my latest piece of fiction is woven with less pathos. There are fields of barley and boyhood ballyhoo. There are dreams, visions, and fruitful labour. There are no car accidents, mental breakdowns, or broken bottles. There is joy. The piece is in process, far from finished, but it feels good to be writing. I hope you will enjoy reading this one when it is finished.
Love,
Your beloved son.
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