it never gets easier. just different.

i thought i saw my father this morning. he was in a delivery truck across the street. looking into his side view mirror, out his window, trying to make his way into traffic. i was stopped at a red light.

this man, not my father, looked exactly like him. he cocked his jaw exactly like my father did. exactly like his grandson, my son, does. he had my father's hat, and his clothing. he was my father in the later years. when i barely knew him, before i knew him again. before he got sick.

and he even had that nervous, tentative way about looking out at the traffic through the window, back to the side view mirror, trying to find his way in, to keep moving, that my father did.

my father loved to drive. but not in traffic. he liked driving slowly, long distances.

i actually didn't realize that it wasn't him until i started to point and say, 'hey, wingman. look. it's pops.'

my mouth opened. then closed. my hand touched the window. the light changed. i drove home.

x.