6 years ago I made cauliflower tacos for a late dinner. I was on vacation at the end of a hard summer, despite my hesitancy to leave Ann Arbor. I had been trying to text with my dad but his presence was spotty. I believe the last thing he asked me was about a movie.. if Lila had seen it yet. The live action Jungle Book. I went to bed slightly bothered that I couldn’t connect with him but knowing how things had been for weeks, I slept. At 4:30 am, on September 4th 2016, I woke up to a nurse on the other end of my phone. My dad wasn’t doing well, paramedics were on their way. Quiet. They were there. Quiet. He wasn’t ok. A long pause, and then a nonchalant, “He’s gone, he died.” I couldn’t quite grasp her cold uncomfortable words. I sat in a dark corner of the large living room of the rental condo we were staying in, alone. Time and space evaporated. I know that I called my mom. Once, twice, three times. We spoke but I can’t remember our conversations. He was gone. That was all I heard.. The man who had beamed at me with only love in his eyes for 26 years was gone. At 5 years old I was riding motorcycles and often using his power tools, the table saws being my favorite. He taught me how to drive a truck when I was 11. He bought me my pony around the same time and made me get back up every time I fell off. He was there to alleviate confrontations and boost confidence. He was even there the night my body transitioned from child to woman, taking me to the drug store at 10 pm for a box of pads. I wasted a lot of time being upset with him in between adolescence and adulthood. Unsure of why I was so upset, thinking I had time to piece it together on my own. But I didn’t. Time does not wait. Every August I collect daily feathers, each year a different bird. This year: Bluejay. I often wonder, if he were sitting next to me, across from me, what would he look like? Could I imagine a conversation now, some comfort? But each time all I see is myself. What he would see..a little girl, now a grown 32 year old woman, raising her own strong girls. Love, flowing from her eyes, like the river she grew up on. I sit here now thinking about those cauliflower tacos, as I do every evening on September 3rd. The air is thick with the scent of the nearby river. A soft breeze blows across the way carrying with it the aroma of the Sycamore trees, one of his favorite smells. I imagine his eyes, the same eyes I have, gazing warmly at me. But all I see is myself, a river of love. -JL
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