Math

I don’t mind math. But I hate middle of the night math. The sort of math where you wake up with a start from a dream you can’t remember, but the feeling clings to you like a damp nightdress on a sticky summer night. But it is not summer. The feeling is somewhere between anxiety and dread and sadness. And your mind is not still. That’s when math can be at its worst: bills that need paying; things which need fixing or, heaven help us, replacing; interest rates; IRA and 401K balances.

But dark of night fiscal math is nothing compared to loss and actuarial math: my father died at 68; I was 29 when he died; he’s been gone 22 years today; I will soon be 52; Dad was only sixteen years older than that when he died; Chuck will soon turn 67; that’s just one year younger than my Dad was when he died...
The math beats on until sleep once again pulls me back and lets me rest both mind and body.

Dad was robbed. I was robbed. The whole family was robbed.
Even those of you who never knew him, you too, were robbed.