Monday, January 28, 2008

Dear Dad...

Thought about emailing you just now...was working an auto repair site and couldn't remember if brake shoes were the same thing as brake pads...I'm such a girl...suddenly, as though it happened yesterday and not 23 years ago, I was sitting on the floor of the garage (feels like Above All, but may have been Kemswick) watching you as you changed the brakes on the station wagon (the one I ended up destroying 4 days after getting my NC license). I looked up the difference in Google, and instantly I was crouched there while you showed me with your hands how when the pads get worn down, the shoes hit metal and you risk ruining the rotors, which gets into serious money and could be avoided by just keeping your eye on your maintenance schedule and an ear on your pads. I wasn't even old enough to drive yet. Was pleased with myself for remembering so quickly, once my mind was given a goose...but the realization that you weren't there to drop a quick line to, especially about something in which you prided yourself in your knowledge of, something that would initiate a common ground between us (which unfortunately there wasn't nearly enough of), brought the ache back anew. How the f*ck am I supposed to act normal when there's this gaping hole in my heart?

Made myself teary at work, thinking about this; then white-hot anger; then that bittersweet feeling again. I guess time does heal, but it definitely slices up the heart and dunks it in iodine in the process.

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