Dad, i.m.

My dad, James Leddy, died five years ago today. He’d have been ninety-two this year.

He’s shown up in two dreams recently, sounding and looking like himself, only younger, first asking me to order a CD for him from Amazon and then walking down a brick-paved street to a hotel. That second dream cast me as both a father to my son and a son to my father. Which I am.

Here’s what I wrote after my dad died.