I miss the sound of that inevitable creak when I’d hit gold and that faithful stair would shudder the noise I thought I loathed growing up and now painfully wish to hear again. Climbing up our stairs in the dark, when it was late and I’d sneak downstairs to get a snack or just to see what you were up to, alone past midnight. I remember my best friend and I would sometimes pretend we were FBI agents, private investigators, and I’d be ever so secretive and smooth. You were asleep in front of a television, or drinking pretending to watch a screen, half-asleep. I miss that creak and I miss taking your trash away as you’d always take mine, the empty Lays potato chip bags and endless (un)used napkins you still have on you no matter what.
Why did I lay in a bathtub tonight after my shift at work sipping a glass of chardonnay, whispering the speech and performance I’d give at your funeral whenever it does take place? You weren’t on my mind in particular; it just hit me, my midnight monologue. You came to mind and wine is stubbornly nostalgic, as am I. I hope you have one, as your father did not. I did not sing for your father and he always wished I would. Please let me sing for you.
I promise I will.