LewRockwell By Edward Curtin
Although my father, whose namesake I am, died twenty-nine years ago, I just spent a hilarious and profound afternoon with him.  For a few hours on a beautiful late spring afternoon, I sat out on the porch and listened to his inimitable voice beguile, instruct, and entertain me. He had me laughing out loud as I read through a large folder of letters he had sent me over the years. We were together again. It was his voice I heard, his voice speaking to me. It could be no other. In the beginning and end are the words. If we are lucky, we hear them.
Itâs sad to think that the era of letter writing may have ended and future generations left bereft of this deepest of consolations. Emails in a cloud wonât do; they lack the soulfulness of the human hand. They delete the person.
My parents had nine children and raised us in the Bronx.  I am the only son. My father and I were very close. I talk to him daily, but it is only with the approach of Fatherâs Day that I reread his letters in an effort to honor him, to remember him. It is usually then that I hear him respond. One look at his handwriting â so unusual â and he is present.
And then the voice.
âThe other day Mama saw a death notice of an Edward J. Curtin but happily he came from Brooklyn so it wasnât either of us. I told you things would get better.â
