I Don’t Remember…

I don't remember what my father smelled like after breathing him in.

I don't remember the light green shade of his eyes.

Nor the scratch of his beard if he forgot to shave.

I don't remember the curve of his handwriting

Nor his favorite color.

The sound of his Sunbeam sports car.

Or the reflection of his sunglasses.

I only remember his list making.

His briefcase.

His plaid shirts.

His arrivals home late at night after dark.

His disengagement, disenchantment, distance.

I have one card he wrote me, praising my good grades.

One picture he drew of his childhood dog. A Labrador.

His model planes.

His diplomas.

His name plate from his desk at some job.

I have pieces of him.

That add up into the remains of his life.

Which as time passes, I work hard to remember.

Because when I forget them…

He will be gone.

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