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Five Years

You know what I miss about my dad? Here’s a short list: He loved Japanese food. He loved Vietnamese food. He loved a good steak and potatoes. Um. He loved food. He’d randomly speak Japanese. He’d seen more of the US and Asia than I ever will. He read so quickly that he’d no sooner open a book than finish it. He loved ABBA. And Celine Dion. And Crystal Gayle. And the Vogues. So much to make fun of, and we did. (Except for the Vogues. They were allowed.) Wait, there’s more: He cried when he saw Les Mis on Broadway. He insisted that well water was better tasting than anything that could come out of public taps. He made our lunches during our school years and packed notes into them with puzzles and riddles and messages with an eyeball and a heart and a letter U to tell us he loved us. He offered to “drive down there” when I drove home from college in tears after a boyfriend broke my heart. He hated the Beatles. Thought they were a bunch of noise. He always wanted to…

Oh, My

It was a great evening.  I was feeling slightly more on top of life than usual, and the four of us were sitting down to a relaxed dinner that involved things sauteed, and jicama, which makes me giddy because it’s like a potato but totally not because it’s pronounced differently than it’s spelled, which makes it cool, and fancy cheese.  I’d made pie, even.  I MADE PIE.  Just for kicks.  ON A WEDNESDAY.  I was exhausted, and I had yet to shower, but I was happy.  We all were. David and I were laughing about something–I don’t remember what it was, but trust me, it was fun-ee.  And then one of us mentioned my dad, offhand, in one of those “That’s totally something your dad would have done!”  ways.  And then, it just blurted out of my mouth. “Oh.  I miss my dad.” SK doesn’t miss a thing. “Mom? Why do you miss your dad?” Slight pause.  I was thinking. “Because I can’t see him.” “Why can’t you see him…