I haven't written about Dan in awhile.
It is not because I don't think about him. I rarely stop thinking about him.
But my thoughts are not conducive to writing.
I see a truck on the highway and I feel Dan in it. I see a motorcycle and I see Dan on it. I hear a piece of music and I listen through his ears.
Everyday as I drive past the expansive view of the Pacific Ocean near where he lived, I think of him.
I don't keep sassafras tea in the house anymore. The constant reminder was overwhelming.
But yesterday I was sitting in my chair watching the British Open (golf not tennis!) and I could have sworn he was there. On the couch. Watching Tom Watson make a hole-in-one.
I could have sworn it.
I felt his presence so keenly. But so fleetingly. Like a soft breeze on my soul.
I didn't move. I didn't look at the couch. I just smiled a little and remembered him. Here.
Not on the road.
Not in the audience.
But on my couch. Those long legs crossed at the ankles on the ottoman. The dogs begging to sit with him.
It was all so clear and so very fleeting.
I hope he drops by again.