I felt you there, Dad

There’s a permanence to loss that’s haunting. Your heart wants so badly to have your loved one back that it aches with the reality that you will never again have the chance to hold them and tell them what they meant to you. Oh, how many times I’ve wanted to share a joke with you just to hear your vibrant, echoing laughter. I wish I could bottle it up to listen to in my darkest moments.

Dad, I felt you there with me just as intensely as you once sat on the sofa with me. Your shoulders covered by your favorite suede jacket, and your eyes wild with excitement as you took in the scenery. Your ray ban aviators shielding them from the bright, southwestern sun. Orange dust beneath your feet. When I struggled to climb up those rocks, was it you pushing me far past what I thought I was capable of? What did you think of the winding drive up 89A? Did the curves make your stomach jump the way mine did?

My tears flowed like a river as I felt you there with me. The trip I never got to take you on, the emotional moment we only allowed ourselves to experience a handful of times while you were alive, because we are just as much the same as we are different. I carry pieces of you that are both visible and hidden. You were always a little too good with your poker face.