It’s been six months since I’ve seen you, yet I feel your presence. You live on in my memories, and everything I do is often with the hope that you are watching from your special recliner sitting atop the brightest star in the sky.
I picture you there, smoking a cigar, laughing when the boys are clowning around as you so enjoyed, and smiling when we talk fondly of you and glance upward.
I picture your glasses that have fallen down your nose, and I can see you working the crossword puzzle from the newspaper. You always came close to completing it, and now I love to do them, too.
I envision you wearing slacks and a sweater, since you rarely wore jeans, or your baseball hat that you never pulled down tightly on your head.
I picture all of this.
Mostly, I remember a father who was stubborn, like myself, and a man who nurtured his family in ways your daughters hope to emulate. I remember a Dad who put extra scrambled eggs in his fried rice, and a Dad who would be in trouble if he didn’t wear a belt with his pants.