A girl and her daddy

Well, here I sit in a rural coffee shop with a non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte and a laptop at the forefront of my world. There's also Plath's The Bell Jar and Bonnie Friedman's Writing Past Dark at my elbow, waiting their turns for my attention. Art dangles from black chain links hung on metal piping, and the paintings sway, like fluid, from the breeze made by the ceiling fans. Better Than Ezra plays on my headphones, making me feel like another person, or at least not the person that I am. "And I felt so deep once..." they sing.

I called my dad before I left my house--he said he'd been out shopping for picture frames because the movers had broken all the glass out of his on the way back from Belgium. I simply couldn't imagine my dad shopping for picture frames, and the idea amused me. (This amusement I didn't divulge because it was as heartbreaking to me as it was amusing. My mom used to be the buyer of all things domestic.)

He was fumbling with the phone, trying to open his car door with his broken arm. I wanted to ask him if there was anything in particular that he wanted for his birthday. And, of course, to try to get him to buy the house next door to live in after his retirement. I try to wheedle him a little bit every time I talk to him. They're building a new deck, I say. I won't bother you too much, I insist. You can watch your grandson grow up, I plead.

And what I really mean by all of this is "I need you, dad." But this tidbit goes unsaid. I just hope he knows it.