want Dad here, hovering over the edge of the chair while I talk to Bridgit. I want him on the end of my bed, on the arm of the couch, beside the sea, with me. Telling me stories in fragments, putting my past together like pieces of sea glass. I want him here, whole, pinned into place. I want him to not be disappointed in me. I want his eyes not to go widewidewide. I want him talking, being; I want him dead or alive.
