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.”
