Found out last night that my father has died. He died a month ago, alone, in his shitty little apartment in a backwoods town in Arkansas. I don't know why we were not notified. Looters had their way with the place after the body was removed. All that's left is the briefcase that never left his side. The briefcase that went with him to pull duty. The briefcase in which he brought home treasures from Okinawa, Japan. The briefcase he kept his bar napkin sketches of UFOs on. The briefcase he kept his engineering plans for this contraption or that. The briefcase that housed the journal of his meeting with Jesus in a little desert bar on 20 Nov 1987.
What I feel mostly is relief. He had a difficult life, and between the alcoholism and violent mental illness, I'm surprised he made it to 68 years old. His suffering is over, and for that I am grateful.