So, anyway, I don't think about my dad too much. But sometimes I pause and think to myself, Damn, he's been gone for more than four years, now, and it kind of hits me in the stomach like a whooooof.
I took an order on the telephone yesterday at the pizza parlor for an address on West Coy Street in Hazel Park. The manager on duty informed me that that street was out of range and, sure enough, when I looked at the map on the wall, the street was just barely out of our store's delievery range, two streets into the grayed-out area. What the fuck, I said, I took the order; I'll take the delivery.
My dad grew up on Coy street. I think he might have grown up on East Coy, but, regardless, it was his childhood street. I delivered the food--got a thirty-cent tip; whatever, I made sixty dollars on ten other deliveries--and got back into the car where, on the radio, "Let It Be" by the Beatles was playing. Whenever I hear that song now, I associate it with my dad--when he was dying of cancer, I wrote a blog and hyperlinked "Let It Be" into it.
So, anyway, being on his childhood street and hearing the song...well, it got to me a bit. I turned up the song as loud as I could (on the transistor radio dangling from my rearview mirror; don't ask) and allowed myself to be whooooofed. I allowed myself to think about him and his life and his passing and his work ethic and his legacy. I allowed myself to let the tears of our loss well in my eyes. I allowed myself to miss the hell out of him and pray to him that I hope I'm doing all right by him. I miss the son-of-a-gun; I really do. He left way too fucking soon.
On the way back to the store, I stopped by the house to wipe my eyes and blow my nose and kiss my girl. Because, I mean, seriously? Who the hell wants to walk back into a pizza place with tears in one's eyes? Pizza's supposed to be fun!
Happy Easter, Daddy B. I miss you, man.