through my muscle memory;
he will be in the movement of
my outstretched fingers
as I reach down to greet
every animal that crosses my path.

His voice will bleed into my own when
I glance outside,
noting the torrential downpour
with a helpful exclamation:
“The rains! The dreaded rains!”

I already know that
he is here,
pounding through my veins
in those rare moments
that I soar.

My life will be filled
with wonder and catastrophe,
and my father,
my corny and passionate and
filled-to-the-brim-with-love father,
he will be there,
with me,
his gentle optimism pulling me up
out
along.