We all have our private little delusions, irrational half-beliefs we keep hidden for fear people will think we are nuts. For instance: even though my father has been dead going on eleven years, I sometimes believe he is secretly alive. I envision him living in some Mexican border town; somewhere distant and desert-like, not far from the Pacific. I see him quite clearly, sitting outside a thatched hut, wearing his Ultimate Adventure hat and his ridiculous oversized sunglasses, typing away on his old Remington at a rickety card table.
That's just the sort of thing my father would have done. If I can't totally embrace my delusion, I've come to respect its ecology (arid, hot, windy). That's why, when I check the mail each year around the time of my birthday, I have to admit that I'm still hoping -- nay, expecting! -- to find a postcard written in my father's familiar crabbed handwriting, postmarked the Other Side.