MIA

I didn't get to see my dad today.

Instead, I spent the day in Boston, taking advantage of an amazing opportunity to do some reporting for the master's project I've been working on in anticipation of returning to J-school next month.

It was an incredibly worthwhile trip, reporting-wise. And life-wise, because last night I got to enjoy the company, and hospitality, of my friend Teresa (hi, Teresa!), whom I don't get to see often enough.

I had my dad's blessing to go, and he's doing well enough that I felt comfortable asking for it in the first place, but it was still tough to miss a day with him.

So much so that when I finished earlier than expected, I raced to the airport and boarded an earlier flight, one that would have gotten me back to New York in time to get to the hospital for the tail end of visiting hours. I was all geared up to make a surprise appearance.

I made it to the plane on time and even got a seat in the front row, the better to speed my exit. I was all settled in for the 50-minute flight—hateful compression sleeve on my arm, airport-sourced meal on my lap, newspaper at my side—when the last passenger boarded the plane and the cabin door was closed.

Just then the friendly voice of the jetBlue pilot came over the P.A. system to announce a full ground stop at JFK.

It was another hour and 45 minutes before we finally took off.

And then, of course, there was no gate for us at JFK. We were stuck behind two other planes, not going anywhere. The only means of escape was to be towed to another part of the airport, which we were.

And by then visiting hours were over.

He's fine, and I will see him tomorrow, but still.

I miss him.