I was born at 2:22am, a beautiful, symmetrical number. And ever since I can remember my dad made a show of every occurence of 222 in my life. The price of gas, or candy bars, miles that he’d driven. When I was five, I won $500 for guessing when the ice would go out on our hometown lake. I dont remember the date, but I remember the time: 2:22. When I grew older he’d call or text me (often at 2:22), just to tell me what time it was.
My dad’s been dead for two years, but the number still follows me around. It was there, blazing on the dash of my car, as I drove to the hospital right after he died. It shows up in the addresses of friends, hotel rooms. Two hours and twenty-two minutes to my destination. Two hundred twenty-two dollars for my plane ticket. Each occurence a little pause, a moment of “everyday sacred”.
Deep in the mountains the other night, I sat in the dark above camp. Sipping coffee, stealing a moment of quiet before the summit push. As headlamps flicked on in the tents below me, I glanced at my watch.
2:22am. Hi, Dad.
Chelsey Cook 