An Animal, Wounded

Sunday’s have a stillness and an ease that make me wax nostalgic. Today is made for my down-comforter, too many pillows, coffee, salted dark chocolate, books, and journal writing.
Sundays remind me of my dad. If I close my eyes I can still see myself in my youth. I can still imagine the fountain with the boy and girl and dog with water erupting above the umbrella that shielded them all.
I can hear the loud purr of the circular saw and smell the sawdust from whatever project my dad was working on at the time. The smell of freshly cut grass. I can still hear the ticking oscillation of the sprinklers.
I can picture him in the kitchen cooking country gravy. Hot honey over Shredded Wheat. Fresh rhubarb pie. I can hear him laughing at Kramer from Seinfeld or Klinger on M.A.S.H. If I get real still, I can still hear the whistle-opening of The Andy Griffith Show.
Today, I am missing him…
Today, I am an animal, wounded.
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