i hunted him down relentlessly. i called his mother, his oldest son. 24 years old, desperate, all i wanted was to send a christmas card. call it a lifeline. i wanted to say i love you. still, despite.
my step dad. former step dad. fuck it, my dad.
i felt like i had been given a second chance at the word. dad. i blamed my mom for the loss of it. it’s been two years since he dropped me off in mid-may in that shitty, tiny apartment with the hippies and the tapestries and the bright, happy sun. he kissed me on the cheek, and we both cried.
today a phone number i didn’t recognize left a voicemail. immediately, 5 seconds in, hi my little lady, and i am in inexplicable (totally explicable) happy tears.
a returned call, 45 minutes later, i am absolved. a week of concern of which job to take, where i will be happy, what makes me the best, and it does not fucking matter a bit because my step dad, former step dad, dad, is back in my life and calling me.
i love you, i miss you, thank you for calling, earnestly spilling out of my mouth with more feeling and gratitude than i have been able to express in so, so long.
words are a thing i boast in interviews. the highlight of my resume. words make me spending money all winter long. i don’t have them right now. i have tears and a big, huge grin. i have thankfulness and appreciation like i have never known. i feel renewed. my sense of the all-possible is back. someday it will live in me, but for now, it seems to reside in my second chance at dad.