I think about my father more than ever these days. Images and memories and details flood me almost hourly.
The reminders of smells also trigger my memory. I realize that much of our childhood memories are fueled by smells. My Dad’s after-shave. A grandmother’s special meal. It’s almost as if the gift of smell is our time travel passport to ‘back in the day’.
Barbasol and Old Spice.
Pipes and coffepots.
White Kleenex squares on random parts of his face after shaving. He’d walk around with that for an hour sometimes. You know what I mean, you’ve seen it.
His manly hands that could fix anything and play any sport.
Pumping his rowing machine to Peter Frampton or Lynyrd Skynyrd.
The wheelbarrow rides just as wild and fun as Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and ended up in a huge pile of great oak Fall leaves.
Grief is a fickle writing companion. It makes one write with a fervor for hours only then to shut-down for weeks in paralysis of pain. It’s not a consistent friend at all.
~~~
One day and one page at a time.
Fashion Stories & Dirty Laundry 