Sunday, June 19, 2011
Next year, when I turn 38, my father will have been gone for exactly half my life. I strain for memories now, wishing for nothing but the sound of his voice and getting a brief, odd glimpses instead - the scar under his thumbnail, his paint splattered boots, the way he'd pull his face when he shaved, the mysterious collection of coins in his pocket, the amount of sugar he'd take in his coffee, and oh, gosh, how he'd laugh. Sometimes he'll silently appear in a dream, smiling as if nothing is amiss and no time has passed at all. I'll carry him with me all through that next waking day, remembering that yes, once upon a time I had a dad who loved me.