I remember his floppy salt-and-pepper sprinkled hair.
I remember his round belly.
I remember sitting at the dinner table with my Mom, brother and sister and my eyes lighting up when he would walk up the stairs from the garage in time to join us for dinner.
I remember that his specialty dish was scrambled eggs with scallions, topped with some homemade Chinese XO hot sauce.
I remember sitting at the piano and singing Scarlet Ribbons (for her hair) with him.
I remember that his drink of choice was Chivas on the rocks
I remember him learning how to ski with us – around age 40 maybe?
I remember his drawings and watercolors and his love of photography and spending hours in the dark room in our basement.
I remember going to his office and helping him file patient charts. I was paid a penny for each file.
I remember I was 8 years old 28 years ago.
At least that’s what I think I remember. 28 years is a long time to hold on to memories. And memories fade and mix together with what I think I remember, stories I’ve been told, and pictures.
OK, this isn’t exactly my usual happy and lighthearted Memories Captured contribution. I was planning one of those but it felt forced and not right when my mind has really been on these memories of my Dad for the past week or so. A heavy blanket settles in around 9th, a few days before this anniversary, sometimes making breathing hard. But it lifts. It always does.
While my Dad lives in the background of my thoughts always, January is the time when I stop and try to etch those memories a bit deeper into my mind. A defense against the passage of time? Perhaps.
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