Dear Dad,

It's been 7 years since your death, so accidental and unexpected. I'm in Las Vegas for work, a place I suspect you would've appreciated for its cacophony and chaos.

It was a brilliantly sunny afternoon in the desert, the hot, dry weather you always loved the most.

This afternoon, I was free from formal work responsibilities. I walked down the Strip to the New York New York casino, so unlike the New York trips I remember from childhood.

And, for the first time since your death, I rode a roller coaster, something we did together whenever the opportunity presented itself. I stood in line, and the guy behind me (from Mass., as it turns out) offered to split a 2-for-1 coupon with me. I smiled to myself, knowing your love of the bargain.

The roller coaster was rickety, and the Masshole and I sat in the very first car, screaming our lungs out the whole way, despite the fact that we'd assured each other that we're "not screamers."

I surrendered my body to speed, height, and ridiculous motion--the terrifying abandon that roller coasters inhere and the things that took your life.

I miss you more now than I ever did.
I love you, Dad.

Your girl,
AiE