every day is a journey

On good days it feels normal, as if he's somewhere else: at the doctor, visiting his sister, sleeping in. I can't feel his absence. On bad days, it's more noticeable.

Our relationship was ever-evolving. He was a fixture, a constant, a confidante, a friend, a father. We shared ideas over conversation, sometimes dissecting deep thinking that almost always spurred into argumentative discussions--Dad and I had opposing school of thoughts.  It was like that since I was young. It would start at the dinner table over dessert and coffee, migrate to the sofa during TV time, the mad crazy emotionally charged debates. I don't know how my mom survived them. I guess it's just something we Italians do, our own version of a cardio workout.

Silence. 8am on a Saturday is quiet, that is normal. Later after I've had coffee and breakfast, I'll unconsciously be listening for the shuffling of feet, the murmuring white noise of a radio talk show host, the running of water. I know none of it will come, and yet I still wish for it.

Sleep comes easy, and I fall back asleep this time on the couch. At 11am I stir to the sound of cicadas and ghost noises. The house conjured them in my waking cycle, and they are almost real. Startling how the senses are adept at translation.

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