The Crinkle of Paper

When I was younger my dad would come home from work long after I'd gone to bed. I would hazily hear the garage door opening and then closing and him walking in. My eyes would flutter open when I heard the unmistakable crinkle of paper alerting me that my dad had some fast food glory to share with me.
I would tip-toe down the stairs, always surprising myself at how silent I was, and as I turned the corner, he'd be there in the kitchen about to enjoy his meal. He never scolded me for crawling out of bed; I was always greeted with a smile. He'd share his food, always letting me have the last bite and I'd thank him with a kiss and head back to bed content in my stomach and heart.

It's nights like tonight, as I close the garage door behind me and unwrap my burger; when I hear the crinkle of paper, that make me miss my dad the most. I wish he was home, where he belongs. I wish we could talk about everything and nothing. I wish I could tell him about boys I liked and watch him roll his eyes and tell me they're all losers. I wish we could watch worthless TV till 3 in the morning like we used to. I hate that he's not here. I hate that thinking about him can make me cry. I hate that I couldn't change the situation. I hate that I hate my mother for making him leave. But worst of all, I hate that I miss someone who isn't gone.