Sometime in the early 80s, I went to visit my dad. My parents divorced when I was 3, and this was the first time I'd seen him since then. (My mother got so upset when visited after the divorce, her doctor told him not to come back.)

I spent about 3 hours with him, and felt a connection like I'd never felt before. (notice the Apple IIe and the 2 floppy drives in the corner.)

I had always though I was better off without him. When I was young my friends often complained about their dads, so I thought I had it made. Now that  I have my own sons, I know what I missed.

I have a painting he painted of my mother, probably about 40, holding a baby. I've always liked it. One night a few years ago I dreamed he flew through the house, over my bed, and to the painting.

The next morning my sister called to say he had died during the night.