I would always put towels in the dryer,
just as you got into the shower, for 5 or ten minutes.  
Then run and pull them out as soon as I hear the water stop.  

My favorite thing about my mom was warm towels
getting out of the shower on cold winter nights
before getting in bed early for school the next day.  

It would be your favorite act of kindness.  
And every time you got out of the shower and I wasn’t there you would have a reminder of what you left behind.

I can’t cook.  And I hate cooking.  
The only cake I’ve ever made was from a box.  
I’ll never master my grandmother’s cookies, but for as long as I can I’ll keep pretending batches that she sends were actually from me to you.

When the time comes to be young again I will teach you to jump up and down on the couches, and sing, and dance, and strum an imaginary guitar.  
My favorite thing about my dad were shared rituals of moments of silliness.

Our song will not be slow and sad and desperate.  
My second favorite thing about my dad was his relationship with you.

We would be happy.
We would celebrate our birthdays on February 10th.
We would forgive and forget and never mind that people say you can never really do either.