Letters To Dad #9

I miss you in the everyday things.

In the smell of sawdust, while I picture you standing at your table saw. In the crumbs of pie caught in your beard. In rugby games. In the way your hands were always so cold. The way you sat cross-legged. The memes I can no longer send you. The familiar engine sound of a Hyundai H-100. The leftover meals I no longer pack for you. The way you could devour a slab of chocolate. Coffee left to go cold. The cigarette butts that once scattered your workshop floor, now long since swept away.

I miss the way you called me "Sweetie." The way I'd end every phone call with "I love you," knowing you would never quite say it back.

I miss the way you painted. Your handwriting. Your oversized takkies and the skinny legs they eventually hung from. You sitting on your bed, paperwork scattered across the workbench beside you, DStv blaring in the background as Gladiator played for what felt like the hundredth time. The lyrics of Goodbye by Leith Ross. Livin' on Borrowed Time by Breaking Rust.

I miss the flamboyant milkshakes you ordered with every meal. The cuttings of blooming pink bougainvillea you would bring me, flowers I only recently learned are also called "paper flowers." Somehow, that feels fitting.

I miss your endless attempts to fix the pool. Your summers spent in those silky shorts.

Most of all, I miss the time we spent doing woodwork together. Those memories replay like an old film reel in black and white. Every caravan tent pole we assembled. Every hello. Every goodbye.

They are beautiful memories. They are precious memories.

But they are not enough to fill the gaping space in my life where you once were.