Today you’ve been gone for 18 years. Long time.
Surprisingly I remember quite a bit about our time together. Dinner on the porch. Bread with butter, salt and pepper, cut into four squares. I still do that. A constant supply of Worcestershire sauce and HP sauce in the cupboard. You were so particular.
One Saturday morning, I was nine, I burst in the front door, said “Hi Dad” and proceeded to watch K-TV, a Saturday ritual at your house.
You hadn’t come down the stairs yet. So I went up. You were very sick at that time, you were thin, your boep had totally disappeared.
The culinary genius Esther wasn’t in that day. Boy, could she ration things out expertly! So I took over in the kitchen. I made you a heap of French toast (and no doubt a terrible mess too) for breakfast.
I carried it up to you in bed. When you didn’t finish even half a slice, my heart broke.
You were too sick to eat.
But it’s all cool now, Dad. I know it wasn’t the French toast. You know how? Because my French toast rocks. Looky here.
I’ve never missed you like I miss you today.