My father and I are estranged.

A letter which is never sent is not on its way. Not arriving. Thoughts which go unsaid belong exclusively to the thinker of them. They can’t really be known by anyone else. Only guessed at. Assumed or presumed. You love me. I’m sure you love me. In that historical, removed way. The way we look at a scar and recall: that hurt. The way I look at my children and think: I can’t believe I birthed them and here they are.

I remember how you used to work on your car when I was little. Taking the engine apart just to put it together. I remember the wood pile and how important I felt when you invited me to stack it with you. I remember the two of us shoveling after the blizzard of 78. I remember your love of fine wine and how you poured me a bit from time to time into a shot glass which I thought was a small wine glass meant for children.

I remember how I could make a gin and tonic for you by the time I was 6. We called it: “Shhhh. Daddy is tired.” We called it: “Shhhh. Daddy has a headache.” And I thought this is how daddies and husbands are. They’re the ones who provide the means and then excuse themselves while the rest of us spend it. On soccer gear and pool passes and birthday gifts and trips to the zoo. My childhood took place in the backseat of a car. Seatbeltless. Sharing McNuggets and fries. Punching my sister in the arm and begging for the station to be turned. Always coming and going. Being shuttled someplace by my mother.

And you were missing. Missing. You missed so much and here you are: still missing. Not because you are dead but because you choose not to take part in my living, in the living of your grandchildren. A shattered life being put back together again. Because I had to marry your shadow before I could understand how all of this works.

I have no excuses for you on this day, or any other days really. No warm wishes. I feel empty like a stomach that hasn’t been fed. Not hungry. Just empty. They are not the same thing.