The Voicemails

Journal

My dad died two years ago. He still walked me down the aisle on Saturday.

He called every Friday after practice. 'Hey bud, it's Dad. Call me back, rock star.' I saved every single one.

Two hundred and fourteen voicemails. I never deleted one. Not even the one where he just called to say the Red Sox won.

Three weeks before the wedding, I had an idea. What if his voice walked me down the aisle instead?

Wedding morning, I drank my coffee from the mug I had made — his handwriting, his words. 'Hey bud.' Just like every Friday.

Then the music stopped. And the whole church heard his voice: 'Hey bud, it's Dad.'

We danced to his voicemails. Every 'rock star,' every 'I love you,' every 'call me back.' He was there. He was all there.

Two hundred and fourteen voicemails. And one mug that says what I couldn't: he never really left.