Going out with him in public was an embarrassment, until I reached the age of acknowledging that I couldn't be blamed for his attire. After all, no one would assume that his daughter picked out his clothes, right? Overcoming the mortification and moving into acceptance took place when I was about 23. I had three more years of visits with him on week-long vacations until he died at the tender age of 56.
I think of him most acutely -- and with a big smile on my face -- when I see the outfits Youngest will piece together. Monday, it was a long gray T-shirt, hand-me-down green shorts, black crew socks and sandals, topped off with his Tiger Cub Scout hat.
I miss my dad. And I'm happy to see parts of him in my offspring, three grandchildren he never knew and whom his daughter swore would never be a part of this world.
Bits of my father
make it across the expanse.
[Done for One Single Impression. Lots of great poetry there.]