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He would have loved you. He would have run to you with his hands out limp and squealed “hi puppy” like he did to every dog, even though you’re 6 years old.  He would have loved this bouquet. A man after all of the flowers he could ever have, bouquets lining the empty spaces in the home. He would have been eating fried chicken, or the lobster  pasta he always wanted on his birthday that my mom and I would take hours, days, fortifying a rich sauce for, that he had no idea how much it cost to make, and therefore was fine, because that man hated spending money.He would have fed me a bite. He would have sat in bed and wagged his feet to the rhythm of the music on what ever show he was watching on that overly large tv screen. He would have held my hand in his, and used the other hand to tap mine to the same rhythm, perfect rhythm, perfect pitch, now slightly off from the tremors pulsating through his body. I would have felt his watch snag my wrist with a sharp edge,  perpetually damp from washing his hands. His gold chain laying around his chest, entangling with hair, laid upon his body like a sheet. He would have smiled, his tongue pressed to the thin gap space between his front top teeth, and you would have felt the joy.He would have sung, and danced, and gone to bed early. And to have watched him in action, would be to watch myself, because only as I write these words do I notice more and more similarities that intertwine with exactly who I am and have become and continue to be. He was goofy. Giggly. Silly. The silliest. The most intelligent man I’ve ever known. An encyclopedia for historical facts. A crossword puzzle finished in the blink of an eye while I stared blankly at the page, trying to find a single clue that I could solve. I can smell his aftershave. I can feel his grip. I can hear his voice singing notes off the sheet music in front of me, before effortlessly gliding his bow across the viola and shrugging it off like it was nothing. I could say I think about him rarely, because I genuinely thought that might be true, a sense of guilt and shame that I maybe subconsciously carry.But I guess I think about him every day in some form, because I am him
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