We lost you last year.  You went to bed out there in South Dakota, and never woke up. Fifty five years old and gone.

I mean, I know you weren’t mine anyway,  hadn’t been for a couple of decades, but your first is always a little yours regardless. I know you agree. We talked about this many times.

I still drive the pali, not as much as I used to, but I still do, and I think about all the talks we had about you coming here to retire, spending your time at Molokini. I hear you laughing through the car, then resigning yourself, and reminding me you had three more years to work. And I always said no. You just want to work for three more years. And you said yeah… then you were gone.

Now, all that’s left is the echo of our conversations about how badly you wanted to be here, and me looking out over the ocean to Molokini, hoping you are there.