Eight years later, the world still moves as if nothing ever happened.
Outside the dirty window of the dark bar, people shuffle along the sidewalk, kicking the snow as they sip their hot chocolate or black coffee or decaf, skinny caramel macchiatos from their red paper cups.
But I’m paralyzed, still waiting to hear his slightly scratchy voice from years of after-dinner cigars, and see him wink in that weird way he did, without meaning to, or even knowing he was doing it in the first place.
Winter was Dad’s favorite time of year, and he loved the snow. We used to rent a cabin up in Mammoth over winter break and my brother and I would snowboard while Mom and Dad curled up on the couch next to the fire and read to each other.
I met my wife in the lodge there when I was 19. She was sitting on one of the couches, with her foot up on a coffee table in front of her. She had twisted her ankle and was trying to reach out to pick up her coffee, but couldn’t quite get her fingertips to touch the cup handle. I walked over to help and accidentally tipped the mug over, spilling the coffee all over the table and the floor. Not the entrance I had hoped. I heard soft clapping behind me and it was Dad, laughing at the scene. I shooed him away, bought that girl a new cup of coffee and we had our first date right there.
He never even got to meet our daughter. She was born six months after the accident. It wasn’t fair that she would never be able to know him.
Today is Christmas Eve and I should be putting her new bike together. I don’t know how she could be seven-years-old already. It just doesn’t seem possible.
I wave to the bartender and motion for another beer. The smell of damp wool and old peanuts wafts from him as he sets a bottle down in front of me.
The bike could wait another hour.
*Fiction