Sometimes I call home hoping my father will answer. The mind plays very evil tricks on us. It tries to convince us of an alternative reality that couldn't possibly exist. I also sometimes imagine the phone ringing and then the greeting of his restraint honey-lemon voice. His distinct "hello" that I desperately want to hear. It's funny but when people say "it's the little things..." they could have not been any more accurate. Indeed, it is the little things. The aforementioned hello is now worth millions upon millions to me.
The phone, that I sometimes stare at, rings three times less a day. I am angry at the phone for not offering me the comfort of hearing that familiar voice. It is a selfish phone.
And if that sounds weird, well then, this is a weird time. A time in which I get angry at inanimate objects. I want to hurt my watch because it reminds me of my father's generosity. I look at his picture, at his smile, at this indescribable glow and I feel saddened. It is something as innocent as his picture that taunts like a high school bully.
The phone is ringing. I must go.