By Trina Rehberg Boyko 
It hit me at the most unexpected time.
I was doing laundry, and threw one of my dad’s shirts in the washing machine—the tattered old blue one with his work logo on it, the one I wore countless times growing up. I pulled it out of his closet after he passed away and put it in my pile of “Dad’s stuff” to keep. I wear it as often now as I did back then, although it holds a different meaning for me now. It reminds me of him, of my youth, of the time I wore it while dancing in the kitchen with my sister while he cooked supper.
I should call him and tell him how much I still love this shirt, I thought.
It was a split-second thought. Maybe even less than that.
I know my dad is gone. He passed away nearly seven years ago. And I still get those fleeting thoughts that I should call him to check in.
I see trailers for movies he would like, and I want to call him to tell him about them. I want to send him pictures of his grandsons that would draw that much-missed chuckle. I want to vent to him about my day and have him stand in my corner, as he always did. I want to call him when my car is making a noise he’d surely know the cause of, or when I need help fixing something around the house. I want to be annoyed just one more time that Dad is calling again.
I’d give nearly anything to see his number on my call display. To hear, “Hey, just wanted to see what you’re up to.” To be able to call him when I need him—and to admit to him that I’ll never not need him.
Instead, I hold an old shirt full of memories and wait for the next time I’ll think, I need to call Dad.
by Angela Joyner 
by Meghan Riordan Jarvis 
by Jocelyn Rice 
