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.
Dad is Nowhere. Dad is Everywhere

Dad is in you
So beautiful and so true of those we have lost ….. thanks for sharing.