My dad calls every week, and although I rarely answer, he always leaves a voicemail, telling me about his day, asking me about mine. I know it’s rude not to answer, but I end up treasuring the voicemails more than calls themselves. My favorite are the kinds with stories so long the voicemail cuts off, reaching the 5 minute limit, and he calls again, leaves another one, apologetic of the length. The routine, the comforting sincerity always assured me to take deep breaths, drink some water, remember to pray. Even when everything is a whirlwind, my dad never changes. We used to go to these prayer wheels at a buddhist temple near where my dad lived, and we would spin them every other weekend. I was too young to comprehend my dads explanation of mantras and intentions and “om mani padme hum,” but I understood what prayer meant. I would walk slowly and deliberately, each spin sending a satisfying wooden clunking noise, thinking as hard as possible about what I was praying for. After I would smile to myself and keep my prayer close like a secret. The voicemail always says, “I miss you and I love you,”and I always regret not picking up. I'll be the first to call today, and I'll leave a voicemail when he doesn’t pick up.