Conversations with a Dead Dad

photo by ARTeTǝTЯA ( Too much busy elsewhere :( ).

Forget about it, Son. Forget about work and all the meetings there. Forget about the re-orgs and what your employees think of you. Forget about the newspaper this morning, and headlines of earthquakes and tsunamis, of political lambasting and financial collapse. Come on over, come here to me. We’ll rest up a bit. Breathe deep, calm yourself. Look at how the sun melts the snow. It almost smells like Spring, doesn’t it? Your favorite season, I remember. It’s not here yet, though. There will be plenty of winter nights to light a fire. You remember how I always put on too many logs, and your mom would complain how hot it was? Nothing is more nostalgic for you than the smell of wood smoke. But those days weren’t without their stress either. Even hearing my voice again makes you nervous. It’s ironic that I should be the one to comfort you now, when back then I was anything but. Even now, when you hear that voice filling you with self doubt, it’s my voice. When you think your ideas are stupid, it’s me that shoots them down even before you utter them. But forget about that now, son. Forget about the jolt of fear when your school bus would drop you off and you would see my car in the driveway, home early from work. Forget about the sound of my raised voice calling out for you when I found something you broke. Forget about my temper. Come on over, come here to me now. Breathe deep. Calm yourself. See the sun. Hear the wind in the trees. Smell Spring just around the corner.