Today is the anniversary of my Dad’s death. I was 5, so sadly I don’t remember much about him as a person. I have a few mental “snapshots” of him. A memory of him buffing his shoes before he left for work. The time I sat on his lap and played with the chest hair that peeked out from his shirt. A sad memory of him slapping me across the face for sucking my thumb (DAD!!!). But the best memory I have is the time I was with him as he was finishing the interior of a playhouse he built for us kids, and it began to thunder and lightning and pour rain; rather than run in the house, we stayed in the playhouse, with him bending over me protectively (he was 6’ tall) until the rain stopped — to this day, the smell of fresh lumber in the rain takes me right back to that feeling of being with Dad, safe and protected. My father was a good man, taken way too soon from this life, and his passing altered our lives in ways no one could have foreseen. I know he’s with my Mom and they’re both at peace now.
