My father taught me
to develop good habits.
“Make it second nature
so you don’t have to
remember so much.”
Clean up after yourself.
Iron your work clothes the night before.
Work first, then play.
These habits
hum in me
silently in the background
like a trusted
computer program.
But every January 6th
I am trapped
because the post office doesn’t
deliver to his new location
and my cell phones plan
doesn’t include roaming to Heaven.
He would have been
74 today
and I would have called
and we would have had
that same awkward phone call
we always had:
the one where neither of us
likes talking on the phone
but we find comfort
in each other’s voice.
I miss his voice
so much that
I feel my heart
squeezing hard
as if I could force it
to remember what
he sounded like.
For the past ten years
every January 6th
I am reminded
that this is one habit
I should probably
try to break.