Remembering Popsicle

Went up to my mom's yesterday for a delicious home-cooked dinner and night at home with her and one of my sisters, watching tv and hanging out. As usual for a night in front of the tv there, the channel stayed mostly on CBS, which I just about NEVER watch on my own, except for on commercial breaks, when we watched the Giants lose their early lead to the Bears and get crushed.

This morning, up early and out to mass, which my mom had said in remembrance of my dad's 17th anniversary. Which, as a friend reminded me earlier, means my father's been dead for longer than I knew him alive. Which is a sobering, depressing fact. So I like to think of the good stuff, instead, especially today.

Him teaching me to dance by letting me stand on his feet as he waltzed me around the dining room table.

The flutter of his combover in the wind, and how I begged him to grow back his moustache.

His wide ties in blue and brown, no matter how many times we made fun of them.

His love of historical fiction, and how he'd do the New York Times crossword in pen.

How he used to say "it never rains on the golf course," even in a monsoon.

How much I love him, and miss him.