dropping out of school to become part of a chicken nugget cult
Father’s Day, two months ago today, was the last day I heard your voice. The last day I watched you inhale without the help of a respirator. The last day you looked at me with eyes filled with love instead of fear.
You told me to stay for dinner, that having burgers for two of my three meals for the day would be alright. You hugged me as I made my way for the door saying, “I love you. See you Sunday.” Sunday, a day you didn’t make it to, when I had promised you a peach cobbler and a game of golf in the morning—a barbecue in the afternoon.
I still miss you everyday and today, as I watched the ocean move in and out with the tide, I hoped that you were somewhere like that too. Where you could feel the ocean tide meandering its way in up to your toes and then rushing back out again, more quickly than it came.