On the original black-labeled ChapStick

I have a tube of original ChapStick with the black label with white print on my dresser. I have a blue-labeled tube, "lip moisturizer" in my makeup bag that I apply frequently but don't think twice about.

The black-labeled tube smells like hardened vaseline, like my father, like my first encounter with chap stick, like my father's absence. I look at the black label and white lettering as it sits on my dresser or between my pointer and thumb and I see the tube on the wood and glass table near the beveled edge in front of the black and white striped couch in my childhood home. I see the tube lying in the bathroom drawer amongst brushes and hair grease and even strands of my hair. I see my dad pulling it from his overly starched light blue jeans and applying it to his lips. I see this black-tube all over my childhood. I smell my father and good times growing up.

I remember watermelon juice oozing from the rind, from my mouth. I laugh as I try not to swallow the seeds. I taste and smell the watermelon in the heat of July in Nashville.

I taste the mint chocolate chip scoop on a sugar cone from Baskin Robbins. I remember the four of us piling into my father's car, which strangely I can't see the color, make or model. I see us driving less than 10 minutes away to choose from the 31 Flavors on the corner of Bell Road and Murfreesboro Road two doors down from Kroger. I see my brother's rainbow sherbet, a medley of orange, green, pink and sugary sweetness.

I hear my father playing for me Brothers Johnson, "Strawberry Letter 23" on an old album on his old stero, when I play Tevin Campbell's newer version on cassette. I hear him tell me about the originals. I hear him school me on old-school. I listen to the instruments versus the synthesizers.

I see my father smiling, laughing.

We were never close. I'm jealous of a good friend who says she talks to her father as a way of keeping him here.

I never had that relationship. I don't talk to my father. I do try to hold onto the memories, the smells, the sounds, the sights. Sometimes, I feel like I'm missing someone who loved me. When I feel a gaping vacancy, sometimes I let my nostrils breathe in that original ChapStick for a few seconds longer.