My father. He just wants me to be healthy and happy.

Sitting in a restaurant booth across from my dad. I talk quickly, bubbling up and out, like a pot telling the world there is hot steam ready to come out. But his tone of voice is stern as he speaks to me about watching out for the liars of the world.

“They said I could do buy this house for very little dad!” I exclaim.

“Really? Well I bet you could never earn a profit from that house then,” he says questioning my new so called facts of life.  

My heart sinks a level. My shoulders slump. I am 25 and yet you look at me like I am five years old. Something tells me I could be pregnant with my third kid and you’d would be treating me like I like just came into this world yesterday.

My heart hums and the motors churn. Maybe I can trust him to keep talking to him.

“So I found some pot cream!” I exclaim.

His eyeballs almost pop out of his head. Which was funny, because his eyes normally set in his wrinkled eyelids, buried under gray bushy eyebrows and with a cynical squint. So it was quite a site to see them that surprised and excited.  

He leans in closer to me and asks, “Here?”

I look around. We are at Izzy’s. I chuckle.

“No dad, at a pot shop downtown.”

“Oh okay.”  

In the back of my head, my hurts sizzle away as I remember the generational gap between us and how different we really are when it comes to modern culture. The feeling was almost as enjoyable as reading a text message from him filled with something close to English. Because apparently English became Spanglish when you try to type it into a phone.  I have had my share of autocorrect mistakes, but nothing compares to a text message from this generation.

The next day sitting in my client’s home I had just cleaned, we catch up on the recent happenings in her life. Then suddenly her dog comes to me and paws at me to come up.  I let the fluffy little Chihuahua up, but suddenly I notice something terribly wrong. She is shaking uncontrollably. Sitting in my lap looking into the distance, she then she growls, almost barks. She wasn’t looking at her owner, but just next to her.

“Who are you looking at Chelsea?” I ask the puppy. Because the dog would respond right!

Her owner responds, “Oh it is probably my dad. I’ve caught her barking at that area before. My dad likes to haunt my mom too.”

My hairs raise on my arm and my blood pressure rises. I somehow stop really breathing very well.

“What puppy, do you want to tell him you’re the boss?” I ask.

The dog shakes and growls. More frightened then aggressive though.

“What would your dad tell you if he was trying to reach you?” I ask my client.

“Oh probably to lose weight.” she responds, while shrugging her shoulders.

I sit with my feelings for a little bit. I feel sad, not heartbroken, just defeated. I wonder if that is her father’s feelings.

“I think your father would say that he would want you to be healthy and happy.” I say, trying to encourage her and bring out the more empathetic side of what was her father’s message.

Such is father. He dies. But he still haunts his daughter. Nagging her, scaring the snot out of her dog.  Trying to tell her to be better and get all her ducks in line.