Absence

My dad's absence is with me wherever I go.

I feel it when I wake up, especially when I receive a text message before my eyes have opened. I wonder, briefly, if it's him sending me a picture of something weird: the sign of a diner I hated, Exit 23, or a blurry picture of a baby fox he thought was cute.

I feel it now, when I'm home alone all day because it's spring break. I would usually call him and tell him I was "booooooored." "Uh-oh," he would say, and then would launch into some tedious, drawn out story about what he did today. I was supposed to take my Master's Examination this week, but I had to put it on hold because I wasn't emotionally ready for it. If I had been taking it, he would have messaged me every morning when he woke up with a "good luck today" and would have called me during the break, eagerly awaiting to hear how I did.

I felt it earlier, when I was driving my Volkswagen Beetle to Michael's. I had the sunroof open and was blasting a Taylor Swift CD. I thought of the sunny day my dad bought me my car. He hadn't wanted to buy a Beetle, but he did. "It's been my dream car since I was 11," I said. "I know. Mandy Moore was driving one in that stupid music video, except she wasn't 16 so she wasn't actually driving. They had to pull her."

I felt it when I spent $15 on scrapbooking supplies. He would have told me that I spend money frivolously, and that I need to save more. When I went over to TJ Maxx to get some k cups, he would have admonished me for drinking "rooty-poo" coffee and bragged about how he only drank store brand instant. Yet, whenever he visited me, he would quietly grumble that my coffee was better.

I hit the curb in a horrible attempt at parallel parking. He would have keeled over in laughter.

I felt it when I came home and had Culver's for lunch. I thought about how we never had a chance to introduce him to Culver's chicken strips. I had often told him they were the best I ever had. Had he tried them, he would have complained. Food never lived up to his high expectations.

Perhaps I felt it most yesterday, when I was that tricky combination of sad and angry. I would have called him, and he would have talked me down the ledge. I had my friends and Chris to guide me down, but it wasn't as steady as when my dad was holding the ladder.

I suppose I am eagerly looking forward to the day I don't feel it every minute of every hour of every day. But, at the same time, I often wonder if it will be lonely when I stop hearing his thoughts, and am left with just my own.