Fourty-seven. The age he left the world.
Two. Weeks since he’s been gone.
Sixteen. The age I am left without my father.
Fourteen days spent in my room, thinking.

Everything goes back to him. I see overweight people and wonder how their hearts can survive hundreds of pounds of fat, when my dad’s gave away in a matter of minutes.

I go to Grandma’s house, where she shows me remnants of his life; parts of which I never uncovered until that moment. As I go through his things, she goes on about how I shouldn’t be so sad, he wouldn’t want that.

I rummage around photo albums and find a picture.
A five year old with floral overalls. Me.
A man giving her an elaborately decorated box. My father.
Our matching smiles lighting up the picture more than the candles on the cake in the background.

On the bus ride home, I think of how my dad never wasted a second of his life. An elderly woman sits next to me and sees the photo in my hand.
“Is that your father? You have his smile.”

I do. I decide I’m going to use it.