This is a day of remembrance for me. As of today, my dad’s been gone for 32 years. He was so young when he died, younger than I am now. I was eight years old when he passed, and it’s hard to remember his face other than the way he appeared in photos. I do remember experiences, though: hearing him and my mom talk as I napped in front of the box fan, feeling that my world was safe and happy; his odd sense of humor, which I have definitely inherited; riding with him to pick up a Sunday newspaper, and perhaps receive a special treat of Twinkies to share on the ride back. I remember the walks we took down country roads, and how hard he worked to take care of us until he was too sick to move. He worked blue-collar jobs, never getting to follow his own dreams, but he was around to see my first words in print—a poem about tigers in the school newspaper. I know he would be so thrilled to see me achieving my dream as a writer. So I’ll take some time today, as I do every year, to remember him, and be grateful for all the things he taught me while he was here.
Thanks, Dad, for some swell memories. No matter how old I get, I'll still miss you.