The moments that never came

I can picture him. Sitting in a chair. By now his polio-stricken legs wouldn't let him get down on the ground easily. He's observing. Smirking. He's entranced as Jack's little brain puts together LEGO pieces. The blond boy before him is making sound effects and giving the characters a voice as he goes. He catches a glimpse of Emme darting in and out of the room, maybe even warns her to slow down and be careful. She's likely fallen once or twice as he's been watching. 

But I'm not there. 

I can't be. Because my moments stopped with him in 2014. My moments with him are now only memories. 

It's strange how well I can picture him with the grandkids he never got the chance to meet, but I can't envision how we exist -- me and him. 

I was 23 years old when he died, and while many are full-fledged adults at that point, I hadn't entered what truly felt like an adult phase. I was in my first year out of college. I was young, single, childless and I had just spent nearly a year watching my dad become so very sick. I don't know how he interacts with a daughter that age. I try to imagine it and script it but while the feelings flood these memories that will never be, the words don't really come to me.  

17 years later, I guess that means I've done all we hope to do when someone dies, I hold onto the memories more than anything else. I picture him watching the grandkids because I know how he watched me. 

And yet, what I wouldn't give for just one conversation with my dad as the person I am today.