Walking through the shopping centre, a kids’ book catches my eye. The title looms large. JIM. Underneath is written: káprázatos karácsonya. In English, Jim’s Spectacular Christmas. In it, author Emma Thompson writes about a dog, Jim, who lives in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. I am drawn by the big red letters: JIM. It’s not often I see my dad’s name in English, in Hungary.

I feel my eyes water.

Sometime later, at the checkout, I look across to the café to see an elderly man, sitting staring at me. He has his hand on his head, the same way Boss would do. He rubs his head tiredly, just as Boss would do. He smiles at me, knowingly. Just as Boss would do.

He is the spit of my dad.

I’m on the verge of tears.

I spend all day waiting for a third sign.

Something else.

Anything else.

I wonder what message my dad is trying to send me.

And then, this poem by Donna Ashworth pops into my feed.

On those days
when you miss someone the most
as though your memories
are sharp enough
to slice through skin and bone
remember how they loved you.

Remember how they loved you
and do that
for yourself.

In their name,
in their honor.
Love yourself
as they loved you.

They would like that.

On those days
when you miss someone the most
love yourself harder.

Got it, Boss. Thanks