I wish I could remember more good stuff. The truth is, I’d have to push back years of painful memories to get to when my Dad was. . . well, my Dad. Back when I was small and he loomed large and heroic. Back when he would read “The Jungle Book” with different character voices. Back when we would wash the cars together or when our family would take picnics to the beach or when we’d go to Disneyland. Back when there were Sunday breakfasts out on the patio and then days spent in the pool. Back when we were a family and things felt safe and good.
I woke up in the sadness of missing him. What is it now? Seventeen years of him being gone. But I can still recall the brown of his hands, his surprisingly deep voice for a man so slight of stature, his big ears and his laugh. So today I choose to remember him, strong and loving, leading me around the kitchen perched precariously on the tops of his feet as we danced.
I miss you Dad. Every day.