My father taught me

to develop good habits.

“Make it second nature

so you don’t have to

remember so much.”

Clean up after yourself.

Iron your work clothes the night before.

Work first, then play.

These habits

hum in me

silently in the background

like a trusted

computer program.

But every January 6^th

I am trapped

because the post office doesn’t

deliver to his new location

and my cell phones plan

doesn’t include roaming to Heaven.

He would have been

74 today

and I would have called

and we would have had

that same awkward phone call

we always had:

the one where neither of us

likes talking on the phone

but we find comfort

in each other’s voice.

I miss his voice

so much that

I feel my heart

squeezing hard

as if I could force it

to remember what

he sounded like.

For the past ten years

every January 6th

I am reminded

that this is one habit

I should probably

try to break.