It’s like this, isn’t it?

I picture my father, dead a dozen years now, reaching from the great beyond to tap me on the shoulder.

“What do you want, Pa?” I ask.

“Look,” he says. “I’ve been practicing my moonwalk.”

“Is that something you do a lot — I mean, in heaven?”

“Who says I’m in heaven?” he replies. “Watch me.”

My father was always big on self-improvement, but his moonwalk’s no better now than it was thirty years ago when my younger brother, dying of AIDS, told him, “Michael Jackson’s a better dancer than Fred Astaire.”