The last two months I’ve immersed myself into the part of my father’s life he lived before my birth.

Strange that now, out of left-field, comes another thought — maybe because it was Dad’s birthday not long ago — and the second anniversary of his death not long ago, too —  and Father’s Day coming up making three — a thought about the part of life we did share together;  especially words I finally shared when Daddy laid dying — of how I’d always found him handsome, from the time I was a little girl, and how I always wished that somehow I could marry a man as good-looking as he was — and I think — no, I’m sure — I surprised my father with that wobbly left-field confession.

Why is it, I wonder — I mean, what caused me to wait and sit on these lovely words rather than sharing them with my father in real-time?; why did I instead choose to speak of bank statements and pancakes and old black and white movies rather than speak aloud of childhood dreams which carried the greater weight?