To my father, on his 57th birthday.

When I was little and it was your birthday, I would wander through the garage, the carport, the backyard, looking for things I could give you.

I'd collect nuts and bolts and screws from the ground, the floor, under the seats of all the cars in our yard, and fill a jar with them. I'd put a bow on it and feel nervous, and hopeful that you would be happy.

Sometimes I'm still that girl.

Happy Birthday, Dad.