"Hey, Daddy," I'll say out loud and he's there with me. "Folsom," I'll say to him, "It's built up. I'm not going by the lake, but it's really low from the drought."
I tell him how mom is doing, and my brother and sister. I tell him about my wonderful kids and my husband, and my friends. I tell him the Giants won another World Series. I work my way into telling him how much I miss him, and how much I love him. I bring up stories of times we all had as a family and tell him how important that was to me, and that I know how hard he worked, and I know he was shy and that he always tried so hard.
When my dad was dying, he and mom talked about their first kiss, and, although he was almost too weak to talk, he said to her, "We'll go on kissing in the shade..." I tell him that mom is fine, everyone loves her and we all move around her like she's at the center of our universe, a beautiful silvery moon instead of a garish sun. I tell him how scared I am of losing her, so scared I think I sometimes distance myself from her even now, even while she's still here to laugh with and hug.
When my dad was dying, he and mom talked about their first kiss, and, although he was almost too weak to talk, he said to her, "We'll go on kissing in the shade..." I tell him that mom is fine, everyone loves her and we all move around her like she's at the center of our universe, a beautiful silvery moon instead of a garish sun. I tell him how scared I am of losing her, so scared I think I sometimes distance myself from her even now, even while she's still here to laugh with and hug.
When I finish talking, I tell my dad that any time he wants to come back and look at the world, or find out about the family, he can come ride with me. I always let him know that if this is disruptive to him, that he doesn't have to come. But he can come when he wants to and I'll invite him when I think of it.
And I don't believe any of it. Not even for a second. Unless maybe it's true.
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