As I sit by your bedside pecking away on the keyboard of your laptop, working on this letter, I cannot help but wonder what you might say to me now if your mind and voice could climb up from their subterranean retreat to share just one last farewell. Even now I talk with you in my mind's eye. You remember how good I became at carrying on those silent conversations with you, talking back and forth with myself only to have you interrupt me, "Schubert, why are your lips moving?"

Well honey, I'm doing it again. Except this time, I don't have much of a choice. But if you could speak, I think I know what you would say: First, are you going to get your haircut today? (Just kidding- Yvonne, I thank God for giving me a woman who never ever nagged!) I know you would remind your family to keep a song in our hearts, to look out for one another, to stand up for those in need. You would ask me to take special care of Michael and Quinton and Mother, and you would tell our sons to take special care of Dad.