On a recent bitterly cold afternoon, I went out to help my daughter, Amanda, affix something special to the back window of her car. As we walked outside, I saw that she was carrying a mug full of hot liquid, but when I looked closely, I discerned that it wasn’t coffee or tea. This mystified me, and I was filled with a strange longing to know what it was. 

I’ve been picking up on details like this more often lately, those small, incidental, sometimes peculiar things that make up so many moments of our lives, but which we often don’t notice. I’ve always been emotional, sniffling and dabbing my eyes watching Hallmark movies with my wife, even weeping quietly during certain TV commercials. But these days, even the most ordinary things, such as Amanda’s odd mug, seem to fill my heart with unmerited significance. “You are such a mush bucket,” Amanda, says.

It’s on account of Amanda, actually, that these things are happening to me. Because, you see, my precious daughter and I are running out of time.

Ever since her first breath, 27 years ago, we’ve been close. In the way that paint and what it’s brushed onto are close. In a very real sense, we grew up together (along with her big brother and my dear wife). We’ve changed a lot during all those formative years — among so many things, she’s become a very successful adult, and I’ve lost most of my hair. 

Now, another change is imminent.

In the last few months, every moment with my Amanda seems more precious to me than would be considered normal. Such as the day we said the heck with cooking supper and spontaneously went into the village to get a pizza and on the way home drove 10 miles out of our way because she wanted me to listen to a podcast and we both laughed until we nearly cried.

Or, when we’re just sitting on the couch together binging Doctor Who, episodes, gobsmacked by the intentionally lousy CGI and making hilarious comments with fake British accents.

A few weeks ago, Amanda spent several afternoons working with me, gutting and then renovating one of the rooms in our ancient farmhouse, yanking up the old plywood floor, stuffing in insulation, screwing on new window trim, and caulking the daylights out of everything. On the final day, scooting around on our knees and snapping in new vinyl flooring, with just a few courses to go, we both stood up and stretched out our backs. I felt a tug on my heart just then, and turned to her. 

“In just a few months, I won’t be your dad anymore,” I said, perhaps a bit melodramatically. 

“No,” she said, staring at me fiercely and shaking her head.

“Is it okay if I miss you before you go?” I asked, quietly.

“No,” she said again, as if a single syllable could stop the future.

And then, we just stood there looking at each other, while all the love and devotion and friendship, all the memories of all the years, all those uncountable small moments that added up to everything, welled up around us. Then, we knelt back down and finished the floor.

Back at the car on that cold December day, the mystery of what was in the hot cup was quickly solved. As I reached up and held the wire of a string of tiny LED lights in place against the back window glass, waiting for Amanda and the next piece of tape, nothing happened. I looked over and there she stood, bare hands wrapped firmly around her mug of hot water. I nodded toward the mug and raised my eyebrows.

“It’s freezing out here,” she said. “And this keeps my hands warm.”

When we were finished, Amanda began walking back toward the house, still holding her mug, the final wisps of steam curling from its lip. On the car window, taped down in scrawling script made of glowing wires that would light up the dark and tell the world her news, hung our handiwork, two little words that would shortly change everything: “Just Married.”

I got all misty then, watching her leave me, and I whispered out to her, but she didn’t hear me. So, I’ll say it again. I miss you already.