He’s tall, crazy hair, dirty hat, almost sun burnt skin, worn boots, and a cigarette that always seems to linger between his fingers. He has confidence, a loud and goofy laugh that pulls me in even when I know It shouldn’t. He’s the kinda guy that makes me stare a second too long.

The things I notice the most is fuckin capitalism: brands sending me emails of merch to buy for my dad, the fuckin Duolingo asking me if I've seeing him and why he hasn't taken his lessons in a while, the school who force my 14 years old little sis to participate in the activities for the holiday, even when they know what happened.

It's raining a lot. We all are farmers, rain is basically our life saving grace. He used to love it. Unfortunately, there is a lot of mud on the road leading to the cemetery, and I got myself into a situation that an experienced driver would have had difficulty getting out of successfully.

And he didn't see it. He never see me drive in a high way alone for the first time either. Oh, and now I can park between two cars without any problems. There will be a lot of experiences and achievements that I'll never share with him. Not just driving-related things, but everything, but driving hurts the most because he taught me.

So, capitalism, I can't give Father's Day gifts to a dead man, so I decided to at least wash his Tacoma. We picked it out together; he liked it as much as I do.

What I mean is, this is just another absurd thing about being grieving. There are mud puddles everywhere, it rains almost three times a day, and almost all the roads are rural. The moment I take the pickup out of the garage it's going to get dirty again. But we all like how it looks clean. He especially.

So, happy Father's Day, Dad.