He left early to catch a cab to the Salzburg airport.
I woke late to the light streaming through my windows.
A note rested on my bedside table, a thin, torn-off piece of college-ruled paper.
He had scrawled in pencil in his loopy cursive.
“I love you – Dad.”
They are words he doesn’t say often but shows every day in manners never supposing thanks.
I still have that note, 13 years later.