the note

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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.

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