Tomorrow would have been my dad's 54th birthday, and I miss him. It's strange. Once my dad and I didn't speak to each other for three-ish years, and I didn't miss him as much as I do now. I guess I knew then I'd at least have the chance to speak to him again.
I've decided that Buckaroo and I are going to drive out to the coast and scatter the rest of Dad's ashes stealthy-style. R offered to come with us, but I think I just want to go it alone-- or at least just with the baby, which is as alone as I get these days. I don't have a permit, so it seems fitting that I'm doing something illegal in honor of my father (he never was one to follow the rules), but I really don't want to get in trouble. At least I hope I won't be arrested, and if I have to be fined, I hope the fine isn't too steep.
I have to do this before we move, though, because he doesn't belong in Massachusetts. My dad's job, when he lived in California, was driving from bar to bar collecting quarters from video games and juke boxes and fixing them when they were on the blink. He worked in every two-bit dive bar from Dixon to Loomis. He spent most of his life in the car, and even though he lived his last ten years in South Carolina, most of my memories of him are driving through California-- Tahoe to Mexico. Whenever I take a Golden State road trip, that's where I find him, in the miles.
I think that's one of the reasons that moving across the country is so hard for me. Everything that reminds me of my dad is here. I'm afraid of forgetting.
The funny thing is, my dad would have thought that was ridiculous. He never stopped moving.