I don't have much to write about for you today, Dad, because there wasn't too much that happened. I'm okay with that though—I think it's peaceful, having nothing to do, not boring.

Today was a day to shut my eyes and take a deep breath, then close my mouth and open my eyes again wider than ever.

You were the one who told me about days like that. You said that not everyone realizes it, but everyone needs them.

Now I think I agree with you.

Thinking is something I do a lot of now. I really wasn't able to so much when you were around—I was so young and the world was so big, and everything was so scary that it seemed like the only way to avoid being swallowed up by it all was to do exactly the opposite, to just block it all out.

I wasn't normal, was I?
Most kids are curious instead of careful, fearless instead of reluctant, enticed by everything.

Or at least I hear that that's how they're supposed to be.

I wouldn't know for sure. Mom hasn't had another kid since you left. She hasn't dated anyone else. I don't think she's even tried.

It's so sad.

But I don't want to dwell anymore on how you're not here because the very point of these letters is to bring me closer to you, and that would defeat the purpose.

I don't know where you are, and I still don't understand exactly what happened to you, but I'm not going to let that discourage me. I'm in control of my own life—that's another thing you always used to say. I remember. I was little, yes, but I always listened; especially when you were the one speaking. The words didn't mean anything to me back then, but luckily they stuck around in my mind until they did.

And so I try not to let myself wonder about life and death too much or too morbidly, because that just makes us seem farther and farther apart. I'm writing this like there's a chance that you'll read it some day because I just started to believe that there was.

When I was seven years old I asked Mom where you went. She told me that you went to Heaven. I'd never heard of the place before—I don't know what to make of it, the fact that Mom never spoke of religion until you died and she needed an option for where you could have gone.

But I'm not cynical about it. I think that, whatever her reasons for telling me what she did were, it was the right thing to say.

People in Heaven are good people, and good people don't leave the ones they love behind. They think about them and they watch over them and no matter what they keep loving them, forever.

So I choose to believe that you are seeing this right now. If not, it's because you're just busy; maybe you're playing baseball with the angels.

Remember, that's how you explained thunderstorms to me, back when I was afraid of them? You said that the angels were having a game. Every peal of thunder was a hit, every burst of lightning was some saint in the bleachers taking a picture. The rain, you said, was because they were all so excited to be together that every time someone opened their water bottle to take a drink, they ended up laughing and celebrating so much that everything spilled to the floor and fell to the earth and it didn't even matter.

That all made so much sense to me when I heard it and I never cried during a thunderstorm again. In fact, I started wishing that they would last and last and last. I didn't want the angels to ever stop playing, even though I knew they always did, always would. So when that happened, when the rain and the lightning and the thunder all screeched to an end, I wanted to know, every time, who had ended up winning the game.

You usually just smiled at me, but only one time you gave me an answer. You said "Bobby, there'll be a time one day when you can ask them that yourself."

I wonder if a tiny part of you—even though I know you probably thought that you had just made that story up—was curious about the outcomes too. Maybe that made it easier for you, when you died, knowing that you'd finally be able to meet the angels who we'd dreamed of watching for so long.

I never told Mom about them. You asked me not to.

"Mommy doesn't like baseball as much as us boys do, Bobby. She doesn't understand what the big deal is. And Mommy's so very busy and so very stressed out right now—do you know what they means?—so we should do our best not to bother her with something like this. For a little while, it can be our own special secret."

I think I understand now, why I wasn't supposed to tell her. It was never the sport that she disapproved of—it was the players.

The angels.

Don't worry, Dad. You only said it needed to be for a little while, but I promise that I will never share our secret.

Reading over this again—making sure I made no mistakes for you—I guess I had a lot more to say about today than I had planned.

And I guess that's what always happens when you take the time to shut your eyes and take a deep breath, then close your mouth and open your eyes again wider than ever.