Missing Daddy

On this gray Sunday afternoon, I’m wearing one of Daddy’s shirts, listening to him sing on the old tape deck, and wiping a few tears trickling down. I asked my mother if I could have one of his shirts last time we were at Rosewood. It’s much too big for me, of course—in size and respect—but wearing it makes me feel close to Daddy in some way. In my imagination, the scent of him is still there, and I breathe it in when I have it on.

I listened to a saved voicemail from him the other night. As always, he was saying he was there for me if I needed anything at all. I know I’ll see him again one day, but on this gray Sunday afternoon, I wish he was here with me, drinking coffee.