When I think of Dad I hear coffee percolating very early in the morning, smell eggs and toast cooking, and hear heavy footsteps leaving the house.
I hear a deep voice reading “Little Red Ridinghood” doing all the characters’ voices, especially the wolf.
I see kind brown eyes and a white t-shirt, and country music on the stereo.
I remember early cold winter mornings and a tired man starting my car so I could go to work on Sunday, his one day to sleep in.
I hear muttered comments and laughter at a family gathering.
I see old cars held together with spit and a prayer carrying a family of 6 wherever they needed to go.
I see green lollipops, burned cookies, and grape popsicles that nobody else wanted.
I remember plastic ware in a shirt pocket at family reunion picnics.
I hear silly rhymes and someone calling me “Snicklefrits”.
I know that I grew up with love, respect, and understanding nobody else could have given.