The knocking of the 1980’s refrigerator serves as a reminder that I am not alone when I am my most depressed. The birdfeeders out in the yard hang and sway content with the charcoal sky that seems to never turn blue here.
When the ice falls in the freezer I jump a little and turn my attention to the family photos that dot the refrigerator. Heat and neglect have caused old memories to bend and curl.
The tape mere decoration.
The kitchen clock, off by an hour, ticks and tocks as it always has since Mom and Dad bought this house in 1975.
Sometimes, in moments of sheer desperation to remind myself of my father, I turn to channel 216 and hear Wolf Blitzer tell the latest Trump tale that makes the crease on my forehead even more pronounced.
The Make America Sane Again baseball cap on the shelf mocking me from behind.
It is in these mundane moments of the day that I miss my father the most.
So I hide my unkept hair under his mint chocolate chip green Pine Meadow winter hat as I take out the garbage.
Or I scream, Goddammmmnnn it, Dad! when adjusting the logs in the fireplace because his goldenrod yellow fireplace gloves have a hole in the thumb. That hurt. A Lot.
And most mornings I make my way up to the exact spot where he laid in his hospice bed for two whole days.
I turn on the light by where he left us all last May, lace up my gym shoes and set my timer.
Then, I pop my earbuds in and Sia is reminding me what I need to remember:
But I survivedI’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m aliveI found solace in the strangest place
Way in the back of my mind
And yea, I breathe.
And remain hopeful.