A mark on the calendar – the first anniversary of when his heart failed to allow him another day. His body conspired against his self for a too long lingering while, and then the muscles failed. “Time to leave,” he would say, drawing on a cigarette – “don’t get me wrong” – “the way I see it.” His voice, infectious, inimitable, catches in my throat: “vodka martinis straight up and a plate of unsalted fries.” We’d swap radio bits from childhood: Jean Sheperd late at night (so important) and Mystery Theater, (not important at all) – we agreed. He left finger prints, medical bills, other bills, and the lines that came out of his mouth penned in ink on paper. If the cycle were different, he’d return to us, put on a clean shirt and tie and set his Trilby hat at an angle.