I miss my father, and his musical pockets

I miss my papa.

I want him to be here today, holding my hand. Smiling his easy smile. Sitting beside me on our front porch, listening to the Tiger’s game on the radio. I want him to be alive again.

I know, I know: his ethereal presence moves around and within me every single day, and for that I am deeply grateful. I get all that, I really do. But sometimes, I just want to reach for his hand and feel his Father Bear paw cover my Little Bear paw again.