Homecut

Me and my dad. May 2015.

Cut from dough, made with ingredients

we could not choose, we could not help.

Cut from dough, made to be.

HFD

Hop off the bus from elementary school. Dig out my felt Woodsy Owl keychain. Unlock the door. I had trouble learning to unlock our front door because you had to turn a little to the right, press the handle, and shove in with a shoulder. The three step process was too much when I was eight. My dad drew a tiny arrow directing the key with pencil right above the keyhole.

I'd finally get it, open the screen door and hear:
-The abrupt stop of keys typing at a computer.
-The creak of an office chair.
-My dad's voice building, "Its...it's...Alice!"

I might have sighed, but I liked that great booming welcome from my great booming dad. And slowly I'm sure it built up in me. My entrance is to be celebrated. I'm loved, I'm home.

CharStan

I can confidently say I have the best dad I know (it would be illogical to say "in the world," and I'm into honesty.) Happy day.

The Man.

DAD: Well, I have to start planning for my trip out there in October to see your play.

ME: I really appreciate the sentiment, but you don't have to come all the way out here to see my lame play.

DAD: Oh, no. I'll be there. With an airhorn.

The Garden Cafe Your Mother Loved

On the Philosopher's Path in Heidelberg, Father's Day

My father was younger than I am when he was last in Germany.
The years fly by, fly by.
Next thing you know
next time you go
it's with two grown daughters.
And they eat in a garden cafe your mother loved.
And philosophers walked garden paths
years ago, years ago.
We walked it last week.
The years fly by, fly by.