Around this time of year, body parts start showing up in my neighborhood. It’s a nice neighborhood. The bloodied hands clawing their way up from shallow graves are top quality. The disembodied heads smiling from porch swings never bore strangers with talk of their obvious extreme separation issues. Once, a single severed ear appeared on the front lawn of a homeowner with minimalist tastes and a thing for David Lynch.

My father was – still is – a devoted dad and husband in the Ward Cleaver/ Cliff Huxtable mold without the annoying canned laughter. He’s wise. Reasonable. Fair. Funny.