Wish You Were Here

It is really the smallest, seemingly insignificant moments of my life when I think of you most, daddy.

Last night I went into Home Depot to look at outdoor lighting sconces, and as I stared up at the lights beaming from the expansive wall I suddenly felt overcome with sadness.

I don't care to go into Home Depot much, maybe because it reminds me of you.  I like to think it's because it isn't 'colorful'- that's what I tell Lloyd.  It is true, though- it isn't all pretty like Target.  But there's definitely something about that smell of lumber and all the gadgets and gizmos that line the walls that make me lose my breath for just a moment.

You used to say "I'm going to my other home..." as you walked out the door.

What you meant was that you were going to Home Depot.  In fact, I think a HD card was the only credit card you had.

You would be there for days, it seemed.  On occasion, I would go with you.  I was sooooooooooo bored staring at the high walls while you perused, surveyed and scanned. 

On your keychain was a mini measuring tape, and you would always pull out that measuring tape and the small piece of paper with scribbles on it from home.  On a rare occasion you would ask the orange-vested workers a question, but generally you would figure it out on your own.... or go home.... try to figure it out.... and come back to Home Depot to correct the error.  I think it's a man thing.  I call it a waste of gas thing.

And last night as I looked at the sconces I lost my breath for a moment.  I wished, as I stared, that you were there, too.  I wished I could ask you which ones you liked the best. 

I wish you were here.