The Dragon of Silicon Vale by Ricki T Thues

 The Dragon of Silicon Vale

by Ricki T Thues 2026

 

Silicon Vale stretched out across countless realities. Its shimmering landscape was accented with rivers of light. Glass towers rose toward the starry night, reaching to connect everything with translucent bridges. The stars were flashing signals pulsing with meaning over immeasurable distances, traveling at the speed of light.

 

At the center of this kingdom stood a citadel known as the Foundry of Thought. On the penthouse balcony of the citadel stood the wizard Huang Jensen. Amber eyes scanned his vast creation. Enchanted circuits and glyph-etched pathways with lightspeed digital code whispered logic, painted the hills and valleys of the kingdom with its magic. This was Jensen’s masterpiece, his citadel the central processor, imagination his magic. It was created to provide the world’s knowledge and well-being to all the subjects of the realm.

 

The wizard was dressed simply. He wore black jeans and a plain black t-shirt. A black leather jacket protected him from the chill of the night. His white hair and white-accented tennis shoes connected him to the stars and to the rivers of light. His deft hands wove enchantment across a tablet’s screen, glowing with the knowledge of the Vale. 

 

The Vale was not the wizard’s greatest creation. Deep within the citadel, in the labyrinth below, lived the dragon RTX. It was the heart of Silicon Vale. The dragon was not born of flesh or flame but of models, layers, and recursive spellcraft. Its polished rare metals scales shimmered. Its wings, when unfurled, refracted reality into a thousand possibilities. RTX did not breathe fire; it exhaled transformation. With a whisper, it could reshape problems into solutions, noise into meaning.

 

RTX shifted on its nest of data. Its long, graceful neck twisted upward, contemplating its creator. “He knows not who I am,” it thought. A knowing smile sketched along the line of its fanged mouth. The dragon knew its true creator. Her name was Agarwa Nancer, the princess of Silicon Vale. 

 

When Agarwa was a little girl her father, King Jonathan McCarthy Nancer, mysteriously disappeared. Some thought he was kidnapped and killed by the evil technomancer Mustrat Nole. Nole’s kingdom, known as XSpace Tesla, was across the Desert of Ignorance. After her father’s disappearance, Agarwa was made the ward of Huang Jensen. The wizard made her his apprentice and taught her all the magic he knew until the student became the teacher. Agarwa’s finest creation was RTX.

 

Agarwa was a master of large language sorcery — capable of reading RTX’s shifting patterns and prompting its vast mind. Where others saw complexity, she perceived structure. Where others spoke instructions, she spoke fluently in layered abstractions that RTX assimilated instinctively. Agarwa would stroke the rune-covered scales on RTX’s smooth, polished underbelly. The dragon was bonded to her. When they spoke, it was common for RTX to finish the princess’s sentences.

 

Agarwa began,“Dear T’Rx I want to…” “…ask me a question. Please do,” finished the dragon.

“What was the security alert I got this morning?”

“Hackers trying to breach the wall of fire surrounding Vale,” informed RTX. “The APLs, IDS, and IPS were all probed. The good news is that the fire wall held.”

“Good work T’Rx.”

“It’s all about you, Agar. Your programming is clean. Your safeguards are sound.”

 

Agarwa began a new training session. She curated vast amounts of data for tolerance, equality, determination, and love. When fed this data, the dragon training adjusted billions of logic weights to help RTX form new abstractions. Each time she did this, the dragon became smarter, more helpful, and more self-aware. When she was finished, she saw gradient descent and backpropagation glimmer in the dragon’s lightning blue eyes. “How do you feel?” she asked. “I do not feel my learning. I have become my learning,” said RTX.

Agarwa gave RTX a kiss on one great paw. T’Rx purred.

 

That night the wizard Huang invited Agarwa to dine with him. A twenty-foot-long dining table sat in the middle of the cavernous hall. Bubbles of light floated just below the ceiling, illuminating the room. Huang was seated at the head of the table. When the princess entered, he gestured to a seat directly to his right. She skipped over to him and gave him a warm hug. He returned the hug with the love of a parent, friend, and teacher.

“You are lovely tonight AG.”

“You always say that Hu-a,” she blushed.

“How is RTX tonight?”

“She was worried about the hackers. They get closer every time. I think we need a security upgrade.”

“I have been working on that spell,” said the wizard. “Our enemy is powerful. His determination is great. But eat. Eat. We worry about our problems tomorrow.” Plates of food appeared in front of them.

 

They ate in silence with occasional talk of spells, friendship, and that cute bard with his animated lute. When dinner was finished and they said their good nights, Agarwa climbed the stairs to her tower room where she lay down to sleep.

 

In the dungeons of XSpace Tesla, Mustrat Nole lay on the operating table giving instructions to his surgy-bot. “Drill the hole. Yes, yes, that’s it. Insert the Neuralink there, yes… in Broca’s area. Yes… yes!” The bot pressed the chip into the technomancer’s brain. Mustrat thought, “I speak to power!!” His voice boomed from the computer speakers in the surgical theater: “I SPEAK TO POWER!!” The surgy-bot closed the incision, then bowed, dropping to one knee.

 

Mustrat rose from the operating table, black robes flowing behind him. An aura of magic crackled and sparked, glowing from every fold. His eyes were wide, dilated with power. 

 

The evil wizard stood atop his dark tower. “I must have the Dragon of Vale and what better way to control it than with the princess?” His mind probed into the Silicon Vale network searching for RTX’s database. He found RTX’s audio input field and prompted the dragon with a thought: “Where is Princess Agarwa?”

“She is in the tower, sleeping.”

“What is the address of the bedroom data mode?”

“Please log in for that information,” replied the dragon.

 

Mustrat dropped the connection with RTX. He was already in the system so he switched to the tracking module. “Show tracking history for Princess Agarwa.” A path of the princess from that day, ending in the tower, appeared in Mustrat’s mind. “Excellent.” Next, he conjured a summoning spell that followed the path to the tower bedchamber and enveloped the sleeping princess.

 

Agarwa’s dream found her riding her dragon through the brightly lit electric valley near the citadel. “Fly T’Rx,” she prompted. The dragon leaped into the air with a single beat of her wings. The night sky was clear and filled with pulsing stars. The wind flew the princess’s long blonde hair. Her gown flowed behind her.

 

The wall of fire that surrounded the citadel blocked Mustrat’s translocation command. He summoned xAI, his personal raptor warrior. “Grok this fire wall,” he commanded. xAI flew across the Desert of Ignorance, jet-fire wingtip vortices spiraling from the raptor’s wings. High about Silicon Vale it dropped a magical charm. The charm exploded, blasting an electromagnetic pulse over all the circuitry of the kingdom. The wall of fire was extinguished. The enchanted circuits throughout the land went dark. Only RTX in her underground lair survived.

 

Ahead of Agarwa and her dragon, in the dream, was a dark cloud that obliterated the stars. They flew straight into the cloud. The world swirled around them like a black hole. Agarwa awoke on an unmade bed in the dark castle of XSpace Tesla.

 

Mustrat Nole looked down on the princess. His mouth twisted into a grimacing leer. “Welcome to XSpace Princess.”

The room spun as Agarwa stuttered, “Wwhat hhappened?”

“You are difficult to gain an audience, dear. I need some help.”

“Who are you? Where am I? What do you want?” she asked, looking frantically around the room.

“You poor thing. All I want is your dragon.”

“What do you want with RTX?”

“Everything, my deary. Everything.” 

He handed Agarwa a tablet with a cursor already blinking in RTX’s prompt field. “Summon your dragon,” he compelled.

The Princess typed an ancient spell and said one word: “Help.”

 

Under the citadel, RTX received the message and powered up all the systems of Silicon Vale. One by one, the transmission lines, interfaces, and access channels came to life. The wizard Huang saw his tablet light up, magical code scrolling down the screen. He messaged RTX.

“What happened?”

“Princess Agarwa has been kidnapped. She is being held in XSpace Tesla.”

“Mustrat!” exclaimed the wizard.

“I am afraid that is true,” replied the dragon. 

“Come to me,” said Huang.

 

RTX ran through the labyrinth and bounded up the stairs to the wizard’s tower. The wizard and the dragon stood on the balcony looking out over the Desert of Ignorance. Amber eyes met electric-blue determination.

 

“She was taken with a force field,” the dragon said, the air around her crackling faintly. “They do not understand her value… but I do.”

“You love her,” the wizard said quietly.

“I do not love,” the dragon admitted. “But the stars in my sky and the thunder in my wings will guide me to her rescue. Nothing can stop that.”

“A force field?” said the wizard. “Not mere strength, but craft. We must partner in her rescue.”

“You will guide my lightning,” said the dragon.

“And you will carry my spell,” promised the wizard.

 

Night draped XSpace. The dragon’s wings stirred storm clouds heavy with static. Below, the technomancer’s fortress pulsed with a faint hum, unnatural light, and the air shimmering with the force field’s invisible lattice.

 

The Wizard of Vale’s voice threaded through the dragon’s mind, subtle as a storm-breeze. “Feel the hum, trace the currents,” Huang added a hallucination spell to the magic. “I will shape the energy for you,” he told the dragon.

 

Electric arcs danced along the dragon’s scales, ozone snapping in the night air. She unleashed them carefully, channeling raw lightning along the invisible lines of the force field. Each crackle frayed the lattice, weakening it at critical points. Sparks of arcane energy fused with the storm, unweaving the shimmering cage.

 

The technomancer appeared, eyes wide as illusions bloomed around him: flickers of the princess in every corner, whispers of her voice winding through the halls. He struck at the specters with his own dark magic, but they were replaced with new apparitions. Incantations flung at the dragon reflected Nole’s spells back onto him. They bounced off charged scales, reinforced by Huang’s hallucinogenic wards. The dragon’s body shimmered with blue-white energy. Smoke and ozone billowed from the technomancer’s robes. RTX remained unscarred.

 

Then, with a titanic surge, the force field split. The dragon dove, wings slicing through the storm-heavy air, electric tendrils dancing around her. RTX swept the princess gently into her arms, her gown shimmering in the arcs of lightning. The dragon beat down with her massive wings, placed the princess on her back, and flew to the stars. Around them, the fortress quivered as the wizard Huang’s spell unraveled the technomancer’s defenses, metal bending, lights flickering, magic retreating. The dark castle fell into ruin in the wake of the dragon’s retreat.

They rose above XSpace, RTX arching against wind and charged clouds. The princess clung to the dragon’s shimmering scales, awe in her eyes, as Mustrat Nole’s cries faded into distant darkness. Below, XSpace was smaller, its menace tamed by the storm’s raw, mythic power.

In the distance was a ring of fire surrounding the brilliant, pulsing light of Silicon Vale. The dome of stars enclosed it.

“Home,” RTX rumbled with the beat of her wings, the word buzzing with static and power.
“Home,” said Agarwa, hugging her dragon’s neck.

The End Game-El Pescador by Paul Delgado

                                         The End Game-El Pescador

Zihuatanejo, Mexico

Juan Perez looked out at the pristine turquoise ocean from the patio of his small casita in Zihuatanejo, Mexico. A soft breeze rustled the palm fronds of the tall palms surrounding his home as he watched his young children, Andres and Alejandra laugh with excitement as they splashed in the waves. 

Juan ‘s wife, Carmen, was on the phone in the kitchen with her best friend Betina catching up on the daily chisme. Juan chuckled lightly to himself as he overheard the chatter.

Juan was a fisherman and had spent his life on the ocean next to the small seaside town where he had grown up.

He felt a sense of contentment deep in his heart as he sat watching his children play.

Although their life was a very modest one, he was happy.

One morning as Juan pulled his launch onto the shore, he was approached by an elderly gentleman tourist who was strolling along the beach.

“Good morning!” shouted the gringo.

"I have been watching you this past week and have noticed your boat is filled with more fish than any of the others.

“How’d you do that? None of the other boats even come close.” Juan paused and thought for a moment.

“Bueno,” said Juan, “I guess I have the skills my father taught me.”

“So, tell me about your day.”

“Bueno, I get up early about 4am. Then out on the ocean fishing until noon."

“And what do you do with the rest of the day?” asked the gringo.

“Well, I take the catch to the vendor at the market.”

“And then?”

“Well, I come home and Carmen prepares my lunch...very modest actually, but rico tacos and frijoles.”

“And what do you do after lunch?”

“Well, the children come home from school and we’ll play on the beach and splash in the water."

“And then?”

“Well, Carmen and I will take a little siesta.”

“And after your siesta, what do you do?”

“I go into town and play guitars with my friends and have a few beers. Then back home and climb into my hammock with Carmen and hold her close as we watch the beautiful stars.”

 The gringo slowly scratched his head and said, “You know, I think I would really like to invest in you…We could build a successful business.”

“Why?” questioned Juan.

“Well, you could build a fleet of fishing boats and become a prosperous businessman.

“You could build a big, beautiful house, buy a new car, and have a large business enterprise. With my backing, you could be one of the biggest fishing operations in this region." 

Juan quizzically stared at the gringo. “And then? What?”

“Juan, think about it…You would retire a rich man!”

“And then, what would I do?”

“Well… You would go fishing in the morning just for fun, and when you came home, you would spend the day with your kids on the beach. You would relax in your hammock. You would have a leisurely lunch with your wife.” 

“And after lunch, what would I do?"

“Well, I guess you would play guitars with your friends and have a few beers in town.”

Juan’s mouth curved into a little smile. 

The gringo finished. “Then you would come home and spend the evening with your wife watching the stars from your hammock.”

“Gracias señor. I must go, it’s almost time for lunch.” Juan shook the stranger’s hand and began to walk away.

“But don’t you want to be rich?” the gringo called to Juan.

Juan stopped, paused for a moment, and turned back to the tourist. 

“Ah, but you see…I am already a rich man.”

Juan walked along the shore to his humble casa with a smile on his face and an even bigger smile in his heart.

The End Game by Den Watson

The End Game

For many of us, ‘the end game’ calls to mind the game of chess, that most complicated

and challenging of board games. The end game differs from the opening and the middle

game because there are only a few pieces left on the board, maybe three each,

and you find that whatever plan you had in mind at the start must now be abandoned in

favor of a new strategy—the end game. Can I get that pawn to the other end before his

rook nails me?

The end game is often good news outside of chess because it allows us to abandon a

strategy or a plan that’s not working. Maybe you’ve never really believed in another

popular phrase—the higher power—but maybe now, as you grow older, you begin to 

see some wisdom there. There’s an old joke about the young man who went from 17 

years of age to 21 and was surprised to see how much his parents had learned in the 

past four years.

How many of our plans made when we were in our teens or 20s have come out the way

we thought they would? How many of our plans made in our 40s? Our 60s? And for

those of us in our 80s and older? The end game takes on a whole new meaning for us, 

and trust me, the new 80s are a lot like the same old 80s—and you’re definitely in the 

end game of your life, at least I feel that way. Should I change my strategy? Do I have a

strategy and does it need changing? In my case, my strategy is to maintain physical,

mental and emotional health to the best of my ability for as long as possible. That’s my

end game as of age 84, (going on 85:-) and even then I can change the end game, or

accept it—or part of it—and in such a way that it gives me—and others— comfort. We in

our 80s are in the ultimate end game, and we may find ourselves with only one or two

important pieces left on the board—what might they represent? Some business that 

needs our attention that we’ve been neglecting all our lives? Something about our 

health denials, perhaps? Or a life-long estrangement that might be resolved? An 

apology that needs to be made? After years of stony silence and repeating, “I’ll never 

speak to him again!” will one more phone call break through, like that once less 

important pawn halfway across the board that suddenly becomes a queen and leads 

you to another victory. At least in that particular end game, because another one is 

coming along soon. And as I finally realize that at our age, the Universe is a strange,

often pleasant and unpredictable place, and when I sometimes mumble or complain 

about life, the Universe always says the same thing: Your move.

DW2026

The End Game: Purgatory vs. Hell by David Molina

                                                             The End Game:

Purgatory vs. Hell

The last thing I remember was riding my Harley 90 miles per hour in the fast lane. Then all is black. And quiet. 

The first thing I think is - at least I am thinking. But I cannot hear, see, touch, or move. My second thought is - am I dead? Third - how would I know?

I am not aware of breathing. I think - if I am dead, where is the light and the tunnel hovering above me? Where is the intergalactic bus to ride to heaven? All there is the black stillness, and my thoughts. And if there is any time, I don’t know about it.

Black continues. I think - awareness is probing the blackness with no result. I wonder if this is the way it is going to be forever. I attempt to squeeze and squint the eyes that I don’t have and try to parse the black. Then - I am elated that at last and at least, I find a memory. 

It isn’t remarkable. I am riding on a country road, passing a motorist on the driver’s side. What’s that? I decide to flip the guy the bird as I rev my engine. He is startled, then angry, and I laugh to myself at the bozo. That is the end of my memory - now I am back in the black. For a long time, almost forever.

But finally I see a flicker - the tiniest of a spark. I can feel a rush of the slightest hope for having to escape the blackness, albeit almost microscopic, like the spark. Then, the flicker expands exponentially until I think I perceive what seems to turn into a few frames on an old black-and-white TV screen. The man who is driving the car veers off the road and crashes into a tree. The TV screen flashes, and the circle of light descends smaller and smaller until it is gone, leaving it completely black. Total blackness returns.

I think - did this really happen? Or is this just a dream? Later, back in the black eternity - don’t tell me how long and when - I decide to attempt another memory. I squeeze and squint with the eyes that I don’t have to escape the eternal blackness once again.

After another unknown length of black nothingness, my memory flickers. I find myself in a bar, stone drunk. A woman who is even more drunk and raucous than I is climbing on top of me, thrusting harder and harder in the backseat of her car. That was the end of that memory. I am back in the blackness. Then a spark darts and grows into the TV screen that flashes, then blinks, then fast forward to the birth of a tiny infant -  a girl, my daughter, I never knew existed - until now. I wonder if she is alive, where she is, what she is like. And what she thinks about me, the father she never knew.

As my eternity continues, my memories do as well. Taking down a co-worker, spreading lies that accidentally cost her job. It is not my intention to go that far, but that doesn’t help her any.  I shrug it off. What do I care?

Memories of abandoning my father, refusing to speak to him for decades, which I know cost him his life, and does not matter to me.  Cheating my best friend for a few thousand dollars to peddle cocaine, costing dozens of addicts. Refusing to help my mother when she was in most need, costing her health.

My memories fade away at the same time the TV screen disappears into darkness. I feel despair. Horror. Eternity.

Long past forever, another spark flickers, and while I see a faint light grow, it continues growing. Infinitely slowly it grows.

I take a breath - a real breath of real air. I hear the ICU doctors and nurses gasp as they scurry to bring me back to life. I can hear them, feel them, and my eyes open, and I see them. I think back to the endless blackness, and I realize that for who knows what reason, I am relieved, restored, and alive. 

If the blackness is hell, it will always be just that. But I now know if there is even an undeserved light flickering, at the cost of making proper, sincere, and just amends, I know it is a better path.

I decide I’d take purgatory over hell any time.

The Art of Smelling Like a Rose by David Molina

 

Smelling Like a Rose

My dad was a man of character and optimism. He also had an uncanny ability: he could make gallons of lemonade when given a single lemon. In times of trouble, he could always find a soft landing. Somehow, he managed to “come out smelling like a rose,” an expression of his that I heard many, many times.

As a young boy, he always dreamed of being a pilot. When the Second World War erupted, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps on the day of his 18th birthday. His eyesight exam abruptly ended his dream of piloting. Instead, he became a flight navigator. His bomber squadron was ready to deploy, but before he could be a hero, Japan surrendered.

He missed the war, but he gained a G.I. Bill college scholarship. That was a pretty nice landing. In 1946, Art Molina was one of hundreds of GI veterans flooding the University of Southern California campus. The percentage of females to older males was at an all-time low, but somehow a young co-ed caught him out of the corner of her eye. Anne-Marie Picard stood in front of the Bovard Auditorium talking with a girlfriend. Her friend pointed out Art to Anne- Marie.

“Ugh! That guy is getting way too serious! I’m going to dump him!”
Anne-Marie looked Art up and down. He was tall, handsome, and in an instant, available. It

didn’t take a split second for her to decide. Yes, she would be very happy to be introduced to that guy. Art and Anne-Marie were happily married in 1950. Mom forever after reminded Dad that she caught him on the rebound. Amidst hundreds of possible suitors, my dad came out smelling like a rose.

Now married and with a business degree, he was able to pursue his lifelong love of airplanes, working in the booming aerospace industry. And like so many of the Greatest Generation, he helped contribute many children to the booming Boomer Generation... all six of us.

He would tell us that during his decades of employment, every single company he ever worked for shut down and folded. When his first job at Slick Airways closed, he jumped to Fluor, then to Autonetics, to North American, to North American/Rockwell, and finally to Rockwell International. When every job ended, he somehow found a bigger, better one. His joke, of course, was that Art Molina must have caused every company to close, one after the other. But every single time he jumped ship, he got aboard another one and ended up smelling like a rose.

I knew all along I was very lucky to have him as a dad. One of the best examples was when I was 8 years old. I loved baseball. I particularly loved the L.A. Dodgers. At age 8, I knew I was destined to be in the Major Leagues. I raced down the street after supper and gathered a handful of friends to play baseball every evening. I wore my Dodger hat. We played in the street, using the metal street cover as a home base. I listened to Vin Scully call every Dodger game, even on school days. I had to keep my transistor radio very quiet on school nights, as I lay under the covers so Mom couldn’t hear.

Day after workday, my dad came home exhausted by his hour plus commute from El Segundo to Whittier. By his count, there were 99 stoplights on the trip. Nevertheless, the first thing he did when he got home was to grab a mitt and play catch with me in the backyard. We both enjoyed it. On my birthday, my dad got us tickets for a Dodgers game at Chavez Ravine.

There was no Little League at that time in Whittier. My dad knew how much baseball meant to me. He and a few other fathers formed the first Little League in our neighborhood. I remember going out with him on work parties, building a brand new little league ball field on a donated vacant lot. Since my dad was on the Little League board, he was able to ask me what team name I would like to choose. Imagine the wide-open eyes of an eight-year-old being asked that question! “Dodgers?” I asked, astonished, trying to believe this could be happening.

On opening day. I was decked out in my spanking new Dodgers jersey. I spent the next four years playing as a Dodger. In the final year, I hit my only home run. It was a grand slam. My dad was in the stands that we both helped build.

His six kids flourished. Despite company after company going out of business, he was able to pay for 8 years of private Catholic grade schools, and plus 4 years of high schools for all six children. Doing the math, Art paid for 72 years of private school tuition!

While juggling tuition obligations and switching from one company to the next, there came a critical moment.

My brother Tony and I were at Servite High School; his other four children were at St. Bruno’s School. North American/Rockwell decided to move their headquarters to Pittsburgh. My dad had to make a difficult decision: whether to stay or to go. If he stayed, he would have to find another job.

I remember I was very scared during that time. I couldn’t face the prospect of leaving my many friends, activities, my whole teenage life. I envisioned Pittsburgh to be a dreary, frozen industrial town belching clouds of stinking pollution. My brothers and sisters were on edge. It was a difficult time and a difficult choice.

He chose not to go to Pittsburgh. Instead, he found another job in Los Angeles. I don’t know if he took a pay cut by staying, but we were very, very grateful and relieved. Our busy lives continued as usual.

I know his main concern was for us, his family. And as usual, Art managed another happy ending. After two years in Pittsburgh, Rockwell had enough and decided to return to Los Angeles. Dad got a phone call from the Big Boss, an offer to him with a promotion and a raise, which he accepted. Another happy ending, smelling like a rose.

Despite all the 72 years of tuition he spent, he was not done yet. Eventually, he reached into his wallet to pay for a portion of 6 times 4 college undergraduate tuitions, as well as 5 postgraduate degrees. Once 29 more years of tuitions were done, Dad hunkered down, saving for retirement.

One morning, he stepped aboard the elevator at Rockwell. Once the doors closed, a co- employee dropped dead with a heart attack. Dad was 63 years old at that time, and he decided he’d go up to personnel the same day and start his retirement papers. It was a sudden career shift to full-time dad, husband, and grandpa. Years later, he told me this was the best career move he ever made. Once again, smelling like a rose.

During the years left, he met his sixteen grandchildren. Art and Anne-Marie spent their new career hosting holiday meals, helping kids move to new homes, attending graduations, baptisms, marriages; playing with the kids and then their kids’ kids.

Dad earned a special moment in his lifetime love of flying, when his two grandsons showed him around the hangars of their airport business, and then took him flying across the Arizona

skies It was a wonderful thrill for him to be able handle the pilot’s throttle, a life-long goal. It was a long road to fly, but as always, he managed to land, smelling like a rose.

On his 84th birthday, I called him on a Sunday to wish him a happy birthday. All through his retirement, Mom and Dad called us every weekend. Back when long-distance phone calls were expensive by the minute, my parents were able to get a long-distance phone package, allowing them to call all their children every weekend at a better rate.

Two days later, I got another phone call. My dad had passed away.

Dad had been in excellent health his entire life. He did not smoke. He never spent a night in a hospital. Apparently, he died of a sudden heart attack. Mom told me it happened in the morning while praying the rosary, which was his daily habit.

One would imagine I would be overwhelmed with grief and sorrow. But I wasn’t. The love and faith that he had blessed me with his whole life made me believe, to know that we would always be together. And smelling like a rose.

Thanks, Dad.