I remember when I was a kid. I sat on the edge of my father's car, waiting for him come home from his walks. I would go there to think sometimes, puzzling over my day. But today, 18 years later, I sit in silence.
I'm not waiting for anyone.
I'm thinking, though.
About my father. He's dead.
He doesn't go on his daily walks anymore, never will. I climb in the car, embracing his scent, closing my eyes and taking it all in. I live alone, no wife, no children. But they won't meet their grandfather.
I loved him. He used to play catch with me, ignoring my mother's worries, considering I didn't have a glove. I turn on the engine and drive.
I pass by my father's favorite store, where we would go on our walks. They had our favorite drinks- rootbeers.
We'd drink them together.
I turn around and drive home, step out of the car. I read his license plate, remembering the song I made up about the numbers.
I miss my father.
I want him back.