“I love you, Dad.”
     My hand travels along the faded coral wall. It is an old house, and it is falling apart. The beautiful, vibrant yellow flowers printed on the wallpaper are now wilted and tired. The sharp granite countertops have eroded themselves to soft curves; the furniture is sags with age. There are some things that renovations just can’t cover up.
     I lean forward to peer into the basement, but I am met only with the CD rack on the wall and the putrid smell of crushed cigarette butts in broken bottom halves of beer bottles.
     I say it again. Every day, that’s what I do. It’s like I’m talking to the alphabetized jazz albums, not a person. Because there is never a reply. I’ve learned there’s zero chance, zero probability. But the thing about probability is that no matter how bad the odds are, you wait and hope anyway.