Dad is Nowhere. Dad is Everywhere

Dad is nowhere. Dad is everywhere.
I don’t hear anymore, “Hey Kiddo how you doing? Or “What the hell you talking about,” or “Any more ice cream?” I don’t hear the clink of bottle on glass as we pour ourselves another red wine. I don’t hear the scratch of turning pages as I read to him from Colm Tobin’s novel, Norah Webster; I don’t feel the punch of numbers as I dial his number and I don’t hear his voice, “call you back.” I don’t taste shared butterscotch pudding or hear his hahaha laugh or the soft static of his razor; I don’t admire his gnarly well worn hands, or smell the mild lingering aftershave; I don’t anticipate his, “Did you pay your visa yet?” Cause Dad is nowhere.
And then
Dad is everywhere. He is the cinnamon red fox tearing across sea rocks, leaping up a hillside bordering woods and then sitting and scratching his shoulder; he is the tiny red cardinal sitting in the middle of a small white plate; he is the red top singular mushroom sitting in the middle of our radiant green yard; he is the eagle Janey and I saw last week swaying on the tip of a pine tree; he is the rooster calling as we reach from airport to village to home; he is the funeral director tapping my shoulder just before they are getting ready to carry him out of the church, “Do you want to say something?”; he is the maple walnut ice cream, the waffle cone maya and I devour and he is the gigantic rock we are sitting on while watching the sun melt into the sea.
Dad is nowhere. Dad is everywhere.

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