It's a beautiful day out there, Obi-Wan. The sky is clear and blue with a few puffy clouds scattered at about 3,000 feet. Visibility is unlimited and there's a stratus layer from 6,000 - 10,000. Wind at altitude is 5-10 knots out of the east. Down here on the ground a cool breeze wafts its way through my hair and the grackles have returned, adorning the tree tops, fussing at the top of their lungs.

If you were here, you'd be calling today. Maybe we'd meet for lunch and talk about our plans for the future. The articles, the books, the videos. We'd order the broiled snapper, our favorite, and marvel at the way the bread at Tommy's is always so warm and fresh, right out of the oven, and how it sorta melts in our mouths. We'd wash it down with some white Zinfandel and swap stories. What's going on with you, what's going on with me.

If you were here, I'd be as busy as a cat in a litterbox. There would be at least three articles to edit and a book outline to work up. There'd be a pile of mail from your fan club and a host of photos needing autographs. I'd be scrambling to get everything done and deliver the prepared letters and packages to you for signature. The adrenalin would be pumping, the spirit would be soaring.

If you were here, you'd ring me at work to tease me that the Starduster is languishing lonely and unloved in the hangar. Unable to resist, I'd gladly trade that overtime I worked earlier in the week for an afternoon with you, exploring the wild blue yonder. I'd braid my tail and don my goggles with glee, and together we'd roll her out on the runway and climb in.

If you were here, my step would be lighter, my attitude sassier, my halo blindingly brilliant. I'd be singing along with the radio, winking at passersby, my face as radiant as a newborn sun.

If you were here, there'd be a sparkle in my eyes, a song in my heart, words of praise on my lips.

But you're not.

And now I must find a way to go on without you.

 Please, Mr. Postman