I think of my dad throughout the day, every day. Memories play like a movie in my head, vivid and beautiful. I rewind, play, rewind, and play again. He is laughing and sharing his wisdom, and sometimes he is filled with sadness. I see him, I hear him and I feel his presence, an energy that comforts me. Memories arise with regularity from the routine and random happenings of my days. Driving home from work, I approach the familiar left turn and I want to stop by the house, the house where I grew up. My heels click on the Mexican pavers as I enter his den; he wonders which of his girls is here tonight. I find him sitting at his large oak desk in the dimly lit corner of the room, eyes lifted looking just above his glasses. Christini he says, exaggerating the long vowel sounds. Smiling he offers his cheek for me…