Les Paul is not getting younger

It's been a year now, and I think about you every day.

The good stuff, and the bad stuff.

I try to keep a balance.

I never loved anyone more than when I saw you against the Pacific shore at Pigeon Point Light. Or in the soft light of the Old Bath House in Pacific Grove. Or you and the penguins. The otters. Those huge trees. The taffy. The look you had over your glasses on the plane out there, or your sleepy eyes as Rhett left Scarlett on the second reel as we descended into Baltimore -- the guy in the seat behind us sighed a satisfied sigh when I closed up the iBook and you buckled your safety belt.

I loved that you loved CatCam.

I adore the pictures of you at Niagara.

I really do cherish the memory of the first long talk we had on the phone, even before we had ever met, four and one-half hours, a year and a half ago. We left ourselves open to each other in ways that I don't think we will ever do again.

I have some of our ice cream, and my cats do still remember you.

And I do.

I am pathetic.

Please call me, please, OK?

Please?

Please?

Les Paul is not getting any younger, and I have learned to distinguish 3/4 from 4/4. I promise. Really.

Have you learned that the world isn't perfect?

I will try to be more perfect. I will fail, but I will try.

I will try harder than I have ever tried at anything. You have all the power. You always did.