I leave the house every day at eight only to return three times – keys, briefcase, lunch – just like he did. Each time he came back, he kissed us all goodbye again; mother, sister, me. We played this game as easily as our evening backgammon. Eccentricity runs thicker than blood through our veins – I'm infused with the stuff. My ice cream order is vanilla on top, chocolate on the bottom. Two scoops each, just like his. I know every coffee joint within a twenty-mile radius – his old haunts. Endless amounts of water wash down aspirin for the migraines I inherited. The crockpot I once mocked now cooks my meals – "tastier and quicker than room service" he would quip. I bought the freezer layer cake he ate, as light and fluffy as chemicals could make it. His cameras shoot my pictures now, sharp and bright, and like uncaged monkeys, full of fun. He warned me Father's Day was bogus, "don't believe in it, it's too limiting." Can he know what I've become now that two hearts beat as one?