Dad.

The nurse said you went peaceful.

I don't want peaceful.

I want Tuesday back.

You called. You said you loved me. I said yeah you too gotta go.

I was making pasta.

Pasta.

I hung up on you for pasta.

I found your glasses in the downstairs drawer. I put them on. Couldn't see a thing.

A truck went past yesterday. Diesel. I was eight again for a second, front seat, your hand on the gearstick.

There was so much I was saving up to tell you.

I thought there was more Tuesday. There is always supposed to be more Tuesday.

So here. Out loud, into the kitchen, into nothing:

I love you, Dad.

And I don't gotta go.

I don't gotta go anywhere now. Turns out that was the whole problem all along.