My Dad and Me, Years Ago

You have read here, often, about my dad. The way he daily tends my mother's grave. The way he insists on goodness for each of his three children. The support he extends. The vacations he sends us on.

This past weekend, my dad gave me another, gigantic gift—an evening I will never forget. He shared as well the book of photos he's been making for me these past many weeks—an album of memories, from days long gone.

Here is one of those memories. My dad and me, on my eighteenth birthday. Everyone who meets us says at once, You are so your father's daughter. This weekend a friend of mine said, Your dad makes me miss mine.

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