A table. A warm drink. One unhurried question.

My father died on New Year's Day this year.

And in the weeks after — in that particular fog where you're making coffee and answering emails and you can't quite believe the world is still running on its normal schedule — I kept coming back to one thing.

The conversations.

Not the big ones. The small ones. The ones that happened at tables and in kitchens and in parking lots after things. Between people who loved him and were finding out for the first time what they had in common.

My father was a collector of people.

Not in the way someone works a room. He just genuinely wanted to know who you were. What you cared about. What kept you up at night. He asked questions most people don't think to ask. And he listened to the answers the way you listen when you actually want to know.

I watched him do this my whole life.

It's a show I inherited.

It's the most honest thing I know how to do with everything I learned sitting across from him.

And I think he would have loved every conversation this show is going to have.

I think he would have pulled up a chair and stayed for all of it.

Come and pull up a chair with us…