His girl would always sing in the steaming room downstairs, shower spraying, no music playing.
His girl would always giggle when he said “warsh” or “Warshington,” and she’d try to work the words into as many conversations, just for the jest of it.
His girl has, in the last eleven years, become a mama, a matron-of-honor, an auntie, and a writer. She’s gone in and out of the classroom and moved the kitchen downstairs like they always planned.
His girl is content to spend a weekend at home, binge-watching shows he would hate, writing stories he would read, lost in the pages, seated on the porch swing or by the window, soaking in the sun- or snowshine.
His girl still has the notes he hand-wrote and left for her, still stops in her tracks when a Journey song plays in the grocery store, the gas station, and anywhere else at the exact right time. Still misses him like crazy everyday.
His girl would ride to Hugh M. Woods (“Human” Woods) for the chance to run her fingers through the bin of nails and nuts and bolts. She’d talk in code about”dancing” at parties and live for a Sunday washing cars alongside him in the driveway. And every time the “E.R.” credits would roll, her eyes would meet his and they’d race to be the one to say, “Hey, isn’t that the guy who made Jurassic Park? ”
His girl sang at the top of her lungs, standing in front of the mirror, in every voice but her own. She wrote with and read with and argued with her mother. She grew up and grew out of his careful care.
His girl, the one who suspects the flicker of the street lights is his squinty smile, knows that when the days go by fast, they bring us one quick step closer to being together.
This girl, no matter how many of these St. Patrick’s days take me back to our last, will always be simply and, at the same time, never simply… his girl.