Friends, I made a rookie mistake over the weekend that had me bawling at a stop light on 146th Street. My apologies to the driver of a blue Honda Accord who had the decency to look away.
It all started at Lowe’s. I had to call my husband to confirm a purchase and accidentally dropped my phone because I have fat, strong fingers. In the chaos of the fumble and recovery, I somehow managed to dial my deceased father. The number no longer works, obviously, but apparently, I’ve never removed him from my contacts. And I’ve always been superstitious, especially about the afterlife, so I smiled, took it as a sign that Dad was momentarily with me, and continued wandering the vast aisles of glorious home improvement.
Fast forward 15 minutes. I wondered if I still had any voicemails from him, so while leaving the parking lot and ignoring all internal warnings that I was traveling down an emotional path I probably wasn’t equipped to handle, I opened “Deleted Messages” and scrolled to 2020. Three were marked “Dad.” The first was actually from my mom, but the next two were from him.
“Danielle, give me a call. Wanted to talk with you about the present your kids got me.” And “Danielle, I’m trying to get in touch with your mother. I knew you’d pick up, but I guess everyone’s drinking. Talk to you later. Bye.”
Cue the waterworks. I hadn’t heard his voice in years, and the sudden remembrance that he is no longer here was more than I could bear. I should have known better. Rookie mistake. And again, my apologies, Accord.
Peace out.
