63 and counting

Today would have been my father's 63rd birthday. I would have sent him a card, called him with my fingers crossed that it would go to voicemail, and felt badly about being a bad daughter. But instead I silently stewed at my desk as I considered calling my mother or my sister, but realizing that I just didn't want to talk to them. I just wanted to remember.

I want to remember how he taught me to tie my shoelaces. I want to remember how he would print off chain emails for me to read. I want to remember that time he nearly hit a bear in Yellowstone Park and the Pepsi in his lap went flying so that there was sticky residue in mysterious places in that minivan for the remainder of its lifespan. I want to remember how he would finish an Asimov novel and then rate it for me (his ratings were never the same as mine).

So I will remember those things and take solace in the fact that those memories are still here.