he is 85 years old.
he is handsome.
he told me to never wear pink and red together,
but that greens and browns always go together.
i'm pretty sure he owns absolutely no black clothing.
he used to wear black penny loafers as his casual shoes,
when he wasn't in golf shoes, that is.
he learned to braid in the navy,
and used to braid my hair,
and taught me how to braid.
he also taught me how to make an omelet,
although he would fry them up in leftover bacon fat
and lie about it.
say it was "oleo"
which is some sort of defunct word for margarine,
which is some sort of code for "fake butter."
he taught me to love words.
if you think that is glossy romantic rhetoric,
you'd be mistaken.
he taught me to love words.
he is not easy.
i'm not easy, and when i'm self-loathing about not being easy,
i pretty much blame it on my father.
he used to go shopping for clothes with me twice a year when i was little(er)
and he would sit in a chair and charm the salesladies and read the paper
and then buy me whatever he thought looked good on me.
(and one or two things i wanted that he didn't really like.
this alone may be the most loving gesture he'd ever made; letting me buy something he didn't think was flattering on me but that i really wanted.)
he raised me with the same expectations and generosity that he had for my four brothers,
and i'm pretty sure i let him down at every turn.
but yet.
this man.
what he does for me. quietly, surely, discreetly, and with much charm and humor.
this man.
loves me.
and i love him.
family is not a choice. it's a given. and a gift.
so what's my point?
well, i spent the day with my father.
i'm forty four.
when's the last time i spent the day with my father?
alone.
not sure.
but.
he was who i needed today.
and he was there.
i'm a lucky (old) girl.
ok.
xo.
tt.
