Dad and I both woke up irritable this morning. He wasn’t interested in his breakfast and I always feel a little anxiety when this happens as I watch him push the muffin around his plate. “I’m doing the best I can,” he tells me each time I encourage him yet he still sits there poking at but not eating his food. Rising into my throat, a sadness encased in agitation threatens our morning. Today my parents would have celebrated 42 years of marriage. I try to repress this knowing, to get on with the day. But who am I kidding? I step away for a couple minutes to gather myself and return to find Dad by the window. I take a seat near him and soon after my brother joins us on the opposite couch. “Did you hear him singing last night?” Garrett asks me. Dad sings himself to sleep most nights just as he sang us to sleep most nights throughout our childhood. I guess, when you look at it, he still sings us to sleep. Usually I do hear him. “Last night it was love songs,” brother tells me and I find this fitting. I want to hear one now. I want to hear him sing to Momma. I want to feel her in the tenderness of his voice. I want to remember her in his longing.