10

He wasn't here physically when I: earned my bachelor's degree; reached my goal of getting a full-time job in journalism after school; watched the world unravel on Sept. 11; bought 2 new cars; moved three times; picked myself up and dusted myself off to start all over again; attempted only once the famous fried chicken recipe that no one can seem to duplicate; used my inherited Spidey-sense of direction more times than I can count; or started performing high kicks out to the sides of my shopping cart, to accompany my singing, like he did.

But some part of him is always there: when I flip through the recipe book of things he always cooked and computer-made pages he created; when I pump gas and don't spill any on the side of my car like I did the first time he made me do it after getting my license; in the moments I have to do something that makes me nervous and I remember his calm demeanor and "you can do it" attitude towards me; when I look in the mirror and see that same little bump on my left ear and his eyes looking back at me.

3,650 days. Things fade in the rearview mirror. But they'll never disappear.