Dad

Today I had a customer who reminded me of my dad. He looked much like him, only about 18 inches shorter, and he had the same mannerism of taking long pauses when speaking. Something that annoyed the crap out of me about my father. But because he did remind me of my father, I paused and reminded myself of how much I love(I intentionally use the present tense despite of the fact that he is dead) my dad, and brought that love to the moment of being with this customer.

As I paused to think about my father after this gentleman left, I realized that I couldn't remember what dad's voice sounded like. Over the years I know that there are little things I have forgotten about my father, but for whatever reason, not being able to remember the sound of his voice has hit me hard.

I can vaguely remember his deep-drunken 'hello' like a distant echo. That I only remember because of the distinctive way he pronounced it, like a gruff 'ha-o', with a sharp drop at the end. He also had his own special way of saying shoulder as 'cho-lun-der', but I can't hear him saying it. And I certainly can't remember what he sounded like sober. I think if I tried hard enough, I could remember what his voice sounded like the last few weeks of his life when he drifted in and out of a coma as he lay dying in a hospital bed, his brain being poisoned by the ammonia in his system, but I don't want to remember that. I want to remember the strong cowboy I longed to emulate, not the man who lost everything in his life to his drinking, except for me.