Today my father passed away. He was 87 years old. It was not really expected, at least not this soon, since he was doing rather well yesterday when I visited him in the hospital. He smiled at my jokes, flirted with the nurse, was more lucid than he had been when I'd last seen him. He has wanted to die for some time now and I think his soul must finally be at peace, a place he never seemed to be in the years I knew him, other than when he was up here in the mountains so long ago, or watching the Red Sox or Patriots. I will have more on our last visit together later. Now I think Atticus and I will just go for a walk in the night air.