Numbers suck lately, don't they?
How many weeks has it been since I lost the first man I ever loved?
How many Fridays have I counted since those dreaded phone calls that led to the worst news I have ever received in my life?
How many moments have I experienced where the tears started falling out of what seemed like nowhere?
How many times has my daughter looked up at the sky, or the ceiling, and said 'Good morning, Zeide'?
And then turned to me and encouraged me to do the same?
How many moments have we lived without him already?
So how is it possible we keep going? How do we look ahead, all the while looking back and wishing, hoping, dreaming that all of this is some alternate reality in which we will all wake up soon and see him. There. Sitting there. On the floor in front of the new couch.
On the porch when we pull into the driveway.
At the kitchen table, glasses on, reading. Scratching out the Chinese food order onto a slip of paper.
What happened to all of those slips of paper?
My dad didn't sign the cards. He didn't do the writing. I don't have enough of his handwriting.
But I have a recipe. Chicken soup. I need to find it. I know where it should be, but I need to find it.
Because that recipe is a piece of my father. A moment in time where we sat down together, discussed ingredients, laughed, talked, shared. Not that I didn't call him every.single.time I made chicken soup and/or matzo balls anyway.
What should I do if they don't float, Daddy?
Yoina, what did you do with my baking powder? I can't find it.
Daddy, I made a matzo brie!
I need that G-d-forsaken slip of paper. I need to close my eyes and find it.
I know I will. I know it's somewhere. Everything is somewhere, right? I mean, it HAS to be.
In the meantime I know I can make it on my own. I know I can. And I will. I mean, now I have to.
And it sucks.
It's not fair.
And I'll keep on counting.
The firsts. The nexts. The days. The weeks. The months. The years? Will I? I mean, I will, but how?
Sigh. This sucks.
I love you, Pops.
I miss you. Always.