It wasn't snowing today. Today it was hot cold balmy. In the 40s at breakfast, air conditioning by 5pm.

But then you know this. Because I've decided to write to you as present, as one here, with me, in the room. I had a long dinner with a friend, and we talked about you forever. We talked about how she feels her father's presence, how she talks to him. I want to talk to you. So I will, and I am.

Thank god you're here. I've had no idea how to get through your loss without you yourself to listen to me. And I've decided another thing. It's time for something more joyful. You were sad at the end of your life, yet your soul wasn't made for grief. You couldn't hack that. You loved to be happy, as wide as the world, unbounded and fantastic. Humor was very important to you....you put that in your profile. Which was interesting, as it had no humor. But in person, you used to call me and pretend that you were someone else entirely. You were frequently someone with an Indian accent who worked for the collections department at Target. Your Target credit-mongering self would harass me for a while, cheerfully insisting on payment, and then eventually ask for unmentionable favors in lieu of my credit card payment. It was fantastic.

So how do I do this, you wretched dead man with the really sexy goatee? How do I keep you here? You're asking for more unmentionables, I think, I believe that's what you're saying. Talk louder, babe, I can't hear you. You want...what, exactly? You want your dead ego stroked? You want to hear how I loved you? Because there wasn't enough time, in life, there was too much stress at the end, and you want something different now? Tell me how I wanted you, how you kept me alive? How your touch was the best?

On Christmas Eve day, years ago, we went to see Santa on skiis. You came toward me on the beach, in the cold, the brilliant winter sun at your back, shining through your brilliant white hair. Anderson Cooper, you were. You wore ear muffs and shades and a tremendous grin. You were gorgeous. Virile. Blue athletic jacket, gloves, and you could have skiied anywhere with any Norse god. I imagine your kiss in the cold static air, bristly beard, warm lips, powerful body. You are a man.

It's a night in winter, and we're listening to jazz. It's called the Banana Cafe. The man with the sax also plays the piano, and many people are dancing. But I don't care about them. They're dancing faster, and we're dancing slow, you cradling my hand. Close to you, warm for you. Slowly we sway, always together. "You guys look like you're in looooove", I hear. I smile back, for it's true, but we keep dancing.

We are in your kitchen, and you are cooking, moving quickly and surely around. I've never seen your kitchen before. You're wearing cooking pants. I've never seen these before either. Chefs look good in those pants. You certainly did.

You're sitting at my dining table, paper in your hand. You're wearing your reading glasses, the silver ones that sit by my keys. They're rimless, intellectual, sharp little glasses. You look great in them. Your gaze is sharper, you glance up from the paper, you see me really see me. Your mind is a sexy thing.

How's that, babe? Pretty stunning? Are the dudes from the afterlife clapping your back? You smile at me, delight deep in your eyes. You know you deserve it.

Goodnight Mike. It's 12:43.