i'm drinking wine. by myself. in my room. in the air conditioning. listening to ryan adams "two"... overandoverandoveragain. today i realized how much my own handwriting resembles my dad's. like any father expecting their first child, i assume that he was hoping for a son. i definitely wasn't boyish. i also don't think it was my fault for not turning out the least bit boyish. my mom was obsessed with dresses and bows and peacoats for Sunday church. when i was about seven, he was sure to wake me up before he left for work in the morning. i remember the dimness of the foyer as i stood there watching him slip his buttons through their holes in his workcoat. he'd close the closet door and his hand would emerge from his coat pocket with candy that he smuggled the afternoon before. the strawberry candies were my favorite. i'd lock the door behind him like he showed me and i'd knock on the door to tell him i had done so. he'd knock back. the rest of the day would pass like all the rest, but my favorite part of the day was when i'd see my dad's car come around Chatham's corner. he'd wave out the passenger side window as he'd pull into the driveway, and i'd be at the buick's side as he took his time gathering his things before stepping out and greeting, 'how was your day, pumpkin?' one the weekends, i'd knock on the bathroom door, asking to review inventors and US presidents while he'd shave. i perched myself on the toilet seat as he'd flick his razor in the sink, rinsing the blades. from thomas jefferson to john adams to benjamin franklin. he is my mentor and my hero.

i know exactly how he autographs his checks. my 'w's today resembles his. it's a similarity i adore.