Out loud, in the car

I was driving alone last night, coming home from dinner with some friends and I was thinking of you, dad. I called out for you.


It made me feel silly, but close to you. I don’t usually believe that people are watching over me, but I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind since you died.

“I love you, dad,” I said as I turned down the radio, as if you to listen closely for you to answer back.

It’s my birthday soon and I’m really going to miss your call. I know life goes on without you, but it’s really hard right now. I don;t like getting older without you here. There’s a lot I want to tell you. Things I can’t really share with mom, because the history isn’t there like it was with you.

I was thinking about how I wanted to talk to you about the argument I got into with the mate. I’d sit down and tell you about the exchange and you would talk to me like a friend. You would tell it to me from your heart, knowing me so well. And no one knows me like that.