And Now He’s 64

In my mind he always smells of coffee and smoke. He quit nicotine cold turkey years ago, but that’s still what I smell, what I see when I think of him. The lit end peeking through his slender fingers, smoke curling up and away ever so slightly.

Now he sits there, solving his little sudoku puzzles, reading his newspaper, watching TV.

And he has absolutely no idea how much he means to me.

Or maybe he does. It’s just not something we talk about.

Because it’s sappy. And it’s dramatic. And it’s just not our style.

But it’s there.

And so, Papa, though you will probably never read this, I just need to let you know.

When I…

  • always choose to sit beside you when there are other seats in the room…
  • listen to you jabber about politicians and actors I don’t know…
  • fill out your bajillion forms and documents…
  • always let you pick the flavors of ice cream or cake…
  • buy you a snack so you don’t get hungry while we’re in traffic…
  • wait outside a store with you so you don’t have to be alone while the rest of the family shops…

…it’s because I love you.

Happy 64th.


2 thoughts on “And Now He’s 64

  1. I just stumbled across your blog that feels like a stream of conscience. Personal, introverted and very interesting. Your writing has something enchanting about angry but loving at the same time. I also really adore my dad and I just had comment when I read this beautifully written post.

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