I view my life through my own recollections, keeping some things and discarding others. Most of this is done as a defense measure by my brain, not through any conscious effort.
There are times when a memory will come back to me with such force, it takes my breath away. This week, in the process of washing my hands in the prescribed fashion, I suddenly recalled my dad's hands, covering mine in suds. We were washing up together before dinner. His hands were much bigger, of course, and when they covered mine, it was comforting. I felt protected and safe.
Other dad memories cropped up. Like the time he put the swing in the garage for me. (And dutifully moved the car out so I could swing to my heart's content.) Or when he played Mitch Miller for Paul and I on the Sundays we were too young to attend church with my mom and older siblings. And, in later years, his taking us to the "Secret Place" (usually Dairy Queen) on a Sunday afternoon.
I know there are other memories, too, and I let them lie. He was quick to anger, and often left it to my mom to make the peace.
But he was also sensitive, something he tried to hide.
One time in high school, I started hanging out with Peggy and her family. I would yackety yack about them, especially her father, who was a nice, easygoing guy. Afterward, my mom asked me to cease and desist because my dad's feelings were hurt. I was stunned.
There was so much about my Dad I didn't know.
So, here we are on the eve of Father's Day. I wish my dad was here so I could give him a hug.
And, if only for a minute, be "Little Boo" again.
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