Always when I least expect it, something will stop me right in my tracks and make me yearn to see my father again or just hear his voice one more time.
I think they’re called grief attacks and they come out of nowhere; it might be a song on the radio, an expression on Lucas’ face, or a memory that flashes through my mind in the middle of doing something totally unrelated.
Luckily, these “attacks” usually only lasts a few minutes but they take my breath my breath away and I don’t see them ending any time soon.
Recently I was waiting for my suitcase in the baggage claim area at the airport and I saw a man with a beat up old briefcase between his legs that looked just like my dad’s. I couldn’t stop staring at it.
A briefcase that I keep in my closet because I don’t know what else to do with it.
A briefcase that I have only been able to open a handful of times because it physically hurts too much.
A briefcase that is filled with my dad’s scent, his check books, keys, business cards notes to himself and wallet.
I hate that god damned briefcase and I miss the man that carried it.