Nine years ago tonight I had my last conversation with my father.

He's been dying for a couple of years -- cancer -- and got in infection from his portacath. It took hold, he went septic and 36 or so horrible hours later, that was that. I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I held his hand and sang to him -- Jimmy Buffett's "A Pirate Looks at 40" and though his shaking, he sang along. That was the last thing I ever heard leave his mouth -- "my occupational hazzard'd be, my occupation's just not around."  Later, after they'd given him enough dillotted to knock out a fraternity, I went into the room by myself and told him that if he wanted to stay, that was all right, but if he wanted to leave, we'd all be okay. I'd take his watches for him. He died about seven hours later. He was 54.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about the things he would have loved. That first season of Survivor -- remember what a big deal that was? And he would have gone crazy -- like all of us -- about the 2000 election. I can hear him saying "They're gonna steal it, Matt, they're gonna f-in steal it." And he would have been right. I would have liked to know what he'd have said during 9/11, and in the years that followed. Don't know what he would have thought about Obama, because he loved Clinton. His favorite team won a pair of national championhsips in both football and basketball -- he would have liked that.

He was a developer, so he would have continued to make a lot of money, but he'd have lost it all by now. Of course, I like to think by now he and his boat -- Phaedrus, a beat-up but loyal 50-foot ketch -- and would be anchored off a island somehere hot with someone other than his wretched third wife. He'd have five grandkids -- the first, a girl named Sailor for him, the first boy actually given his name -- that he would have often ignored. Bigger-than-life people are often like that. But he would have been generous with them when he could and would have had great stories to tell them, stories that have, fundementally, been gone for nine years now. I tell them, but it's not the same. 

My life would have unfolded differently had he lived. I don't know whether it would have been better or worse -- probably a zero sum, in the end -- but it would have been different. He would have liked places like TPM, I think. Maybe.

I miss him. Miss talking to him, miss bouncing ideas off him. Miss his jokes, miss his smile. Miss taking a midnight watch with him. Miss the things that a father can do to reassure you when you really need it. Miss that a lot.

Like I said, I've got three kids now. It's an odd thing to say, but I hope someday they will miss the same things about me.

Thanks for the space, Josh, and for the ears, everyone. Sometimes it's good to have a place to write.