The Journey Inward

Remember his morning routine, the same actions in the same order,
Remember the spoonful of sugar he sprinkled over the mound of his All Bran-
     Shredded Wheat mix,
Remember the newspaper, read front to back page each day, absorbing the news
     of the world, the very thing he taught you to read from,
Remember his suits, worn 5.5 days a week - crisp and pressed, shirt and tie, over 
     shoes he shined each weekend,
Remember his evening prayer, spoken with eyes closed and with great reverence, while 
     his four children muttered along, eyes open and forks poised to pounce,
Remember his reading chair, where he retired each night after dinner, devouring U.S.
     News and World Report, Popular Mechanics and National Geographic, glass of wine
     on his side table.
Remember the way he twirled invisible hair up over his bald head, perhaps out of habit
     from twirling yours as a little girl,
Remember the way you'd bound down stairs, tear across the living room and vault onto
     his lap , where he'd bounce you on his knee, singing "Someone's in the kitchen with
     Dinah,"
Remember the way he'd write "Have read," in his beautiful cursive, along with the date
     and his initials, "LBH" on each completed magazine,
Remember Saturday mornings, when he'd leave after breakfast with you to drive to his
     humble golf club in the country, always stopping for corn on the cob from the farm
     stands on his way back home,
Remember summer, when he mowed the lawn shirtless, how he'd scrape and
     paint a different section of the house, trim all our shrubs further back than my mom
     liked, and mutter the curses of his sailor's days when he'd discover another tool not
     put back in the right place,
Remember where he sat in church every Sunday - left side, third pew back, left end, and
     how he'd have his program and Bible at the ready to read along,
Remember your earliest memories of the two of you, best buddies, hunting for worms 
     after the rain, memorizing dog breeds and car makes and models, reading National
     Geographic together, and the Sunday color comics where he'd laugh out loud,
Remember his final years, when you made him the photo album with pages of pictures
     for his kids and grandkids, and how he'd match each visitor to him book,
Remember when the book was no longer useful, because the people were all strangers,
     but how he greeted them warmly just the same,
Remember the man who inspired you, taught you, challenged you, loved you,
Remember him,
Always.
Your dad loved you very much.

Photo:  1974.  Photographer unknown