My father was not present for the last inciting incident of his life. 

On New Year's Day, 2007—the 280th day of the forty-second year of my life—I became one day older than my father ever got to be. I didn't celebrate this special day at the time, because I've only done the math on it just now, for you, so that you'll enjoy daddylabyrinth's odd little holidays. 

But something changed when I turned forty-three a few months later: I started having imaginary conversations with my father as if he were my little brother. A guy who needed guidance, needed to straighten himself out. Stop drinking. Stop being angry at the world. 

I thought about what I'd do with a wayward little brother. What would we do when came to visit my house? What room would he stay in? Would I worry about him stashing booze in the basement? Would I let him be alone with the kids, or worry about him yelling at them?

If I put him up in the basement, would I be able to sleep at all? Or would I stay up all night, worrying about him sneaking upstairs to relive the moment where he came home to get his gun, and I saw him with it in the living room?

At our age, would we finally be able to play that scene out the way it was meant to be? The way that would give us each the fullest understanding?