one last hug

I woke with a dull ache in my chest. My first thought was, “Dad has to leave today.”

It was still dark out. A sliver of light spilled in from under the door into where I was sleeping. What time is it? Maybe I could give Dad one last hug before he left. 3:50 am. I hopped out of bed and opened the door to the light-flooded room. Dad was sitting on the couch reading his Bible with a pencil in his hand.

“One last hug,” I said, leaning down to him.

He was still in his pajamas, but his hair and beard were combed and he smelled like oak barrels and cedar from his beard oil. Every time I hug him it brings me back to being a little girl. When it felt like he was the only stable thing I had. When we’d stay up talking and playing video games until the sky brightened like we were all there was. When life felt so much lighter than it does now, even though it wasn’t. When there weren’t state lines between us. When we felt free.

“I love you,” he said.

I said I love you back but I didn’t say goodbye because no matter how many times I do it, saying goodbye always turns my stomach to knots.

I climbed back into bed and felt the ache turn into a raw yearning. A physical pain that caused me to bring my hands to my chest. I laid there in the blue dark waiting for the sound of the front door closing. The sound of Dad leaving.