I listened to you tonight. Backing up the files on my laptop I found you and one of our conversations that I just happened to audio record several years ago. You told me about the old house in Chicago, your dogs… the way you took care of me while I was really little, and even the way you took care of me into grade school when you moved to Rosemont.
I closed my eyes and listened to your voice.
I listened to your laugh.
And my laugh.
Our time together.
I wish I could call you, and tell you nothing at all. Random thoughts from my week. Let you tell me about the weather or your shows. Listen to your questions about my job or my travel. Tell you about church and bible study. Have you ask me if I am happy. Have you ask me about my sweetheart. Have you tell me to give him a hug from you.
I would tell you that I got to see the sunrise in Punta Cana.
And drink Cosmos in your honor.
I want to drink them now just to be with you.
I would ask you about God. How is he? What does he look like? Did you get to hug Jesus? Which body did you get? Since God exists outside of time am I already there with you? (Because that would be amazing, even though just trying to think about it makes my brain hurt.)
I would tell you that there are days when I feel old. And days when I feel like I’m a little kid. This is one of those moments where I feel very small. Where I close my eyes
and I picture the apartment and watching Jeopardy with you
and Papa. I am sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, and eating the donut you got me while you cook dinner. And I can fast forward to us all shouting out the answers at Wheel of Fortune, and laughing as we played cards… and you putting me to bed.
I remember life before coffee, and work and responsibility.
I remember my life with you.
I miss you and it hurts.