I remember swinging on the swingset with you. You built it out of red wood and planted it next to my first Christmas tree.
I remember a big snowstorm before Rachel was born. We had no power. You built a fire and we heated crab legs over the flames.
I remember going to the pool and you throwing me out of the water. You made me go under the water once so I wouldn’t hear the joke you were telling the neighbor.
I remember your nose dripping ocean water on the counter at Hardee’s. The woman wiped it up like it happened all the time.
I remember you emptying the crab pots at the beach. Was that the first time I knew what death was?
I remember you working for the ferry so I could go to camp. I was so embarrassed that I lied to the other girls. I’m sorry I lied to the other girls.
I remember you picking me up from camp to take me to Mass. I begged you not to but I really loved it because I could be with you and mom.
I remember you buying a Cabbage Patch Kid for Grandpa so he could have a bald baby.
I remember a crawdad feast or maybe I just remember the pictures.
I remember you speaking in tongues at my Confirmation. I was so embarrassed. I’m sorry I was so embarrassed.
I remember you teaching me about the Shroud of Turin.
I remember you teaching me about my faith.
I remember you teaching me to love reading.
I remember how irritated you’d get when I didn’t use a bookmark.
I remember you warning me about that boy. Why didn’t I listen to you?
I remember all the fights we had about college. Did I ever tell you that you were right?
I remember how you cried at my wedding.
I remember how I cried when you said you’d never get to read all the books on your list.
I remember I cried because I knew it was true.
I wish you would call and leave a five minute message on my answering machine about everything and nothing.
I wish I could call you and ask you to fix all the broken things I have no one to fix.
I wish I could call you and tell you about my writing.
I wish I could call you and ask you to come hang out with the kids.
I wish I had more than just photographs, Dad.
I remember you…