I miss my Father

Today I took my little boy to the barber and we both got hair cuts. He's four and looked so cute sitting on the booster seat with this giant green cape covering him up. You could only see his little head and his big blue eyes. I felt so happy just looking at him, like my heart could swell up and burst. After he was done I was having my hair cut and the barber was making small talk. I wasn't really paying that much attention until she asked where my father lives. I didn't answer and so she asked again. I then slowly came to my senses and told her he was dead.

My father died when I was 11. Sometimes, like tonight, I miss him so much. I want to invite him over for dinner and let him come to my son's football games. I want to talk with him as an adult and tell him that I understand how he can feel restless because I do too. I want to watch TV with him. I want to hear stories of when he was young, when he was in the Navy and when he bought his first car. I want to arm wrestle. I want to argue about politics and hear his voice. I want to tell him that I am so sorry that I was rude to him that one night on the porch. I wish I had never said it. I have thought about that since the day of his funeral when I so badly wanted to write a note on the back of the program telling him how sorry I was. That I really didn't mean it but was trying to be funny and get attention, and that I loved him. I was going to slip the note into his casket at the funeral, but didn't get to write it because I didn't have a pen. I wish he could see all that I have become. I wish he could see his grandchildren and how one of them looks just like him.

But there is nothing I can do. I have no say, no choice in the matter. All this was taken from me when I was just 11. So I will again bury this pain and angst as I had to learn to do when I was just a little boy. And I'll remember to just lie to the barber next time. Goodnight.