Dear Austin,

I’m not sure which fuse blew to leave you hanging there like that but dollars to donuts you’d still be disappointed with us. We keep escalating. This morning I cried when the dental hygienist asked if I’d ever played disc golf. I kept thinking of all those slobbering cows atop the Blood of Christ in Red River, our hurled discs missing the herd and rolling down the slope out of sight. You scavenged two more out of the woods and we scuffled on. Your mom cries during chewing gum commercials. I should stop paddling. Just yesterday I woke up soaked through inside the washing machine. It felt like being in a womb. After you left, your sister told us to keep doing what we’re doing. She does a great I Love Lucy, rubber face and impeccable timing. Her conveyor belt continues to run, moments passing and spilling to the floor. Remember how on the last hole, at the peak, you missed from five feet and had to descend a hundred more for your next toss? I call that Happy Memory 518, exhausted and high. I huddle there sometimes. It’s broken and fruitless but still I hope you’re out there, somewhere, hurling toward home.