It seems like a thousand days

I have a necklace that I wear, a silver locket. It holds a piece of paper with my father’s words to me, “I love you, Dad," cut from a note he’d written me and folded over small. I’ve developed the habit of fiddling with the locket when I’m talking to someone. Anyone really, a co-worker, friend, sales person, pharmacist. Doesn’t matter. I’ve never been a fiddler before. I can’t keep still for long, that's a fact, but that's about getting up, not fidgeting. I don’t tap pens on the desk, or tap my foot on the floor. I don’t twist my hair. And I don't fiddle with my other necklaces, just this one. Although it may appear that I'm fidgeting in a sort of absent-minded or nervous way, I'm actually focused on the action. I’m very aware that my fingers are on a piece of silver that contains my father's message that he loves me. I'm very aware that if I remove the silver and the paper, that it's that love I'm after. That is all.