W hen mom texted me yesterday and informed me you were admitted for minor surgery, my heart lurched in my chest. The doctors unexpectedly admitted you at your appointment. Just that morning I texted to ask your year of birth. I filled my passport application and I needed that information, Dad. Did I tell you I love you? I checked my phone. Yes, I did. But I should have called. I should have said I Love You with my voice.
Mom tells me something about the C4 and C5 vertebrae and that's where the doctors are working. I should have said I Love You with my voice.
I called you last night and you recounted the breeze that opened your hospital gown just before anesthesia was administered. We laughed. I offered to pick up Zoe from choir practice, but you knew I was simply looking for an excuse to go home. To sit next to you at the kitchen counter. I bring you home a burrito with an extra side of salsa, just the way you like. You complain about messiness of the kitchen--blaming mom--but we both know your strewn coffee cup is just as guilty as hers. We laugh. I make tea. We talk. I rub your bald head like a crystal ball just before I leave and I secretly hope your smarts rub off on me.
Dad, I went home last night to say I Love You. With my voice. |
