This last snapshot we took with our dad is blurry.
The memories of him, of the kind man he was, of what he stood for, of his integrity, of his character, of the father he was to us, the ways in which he loved us, they have not faded these fifty years later.
Those memories are sharp as ever.
Had he lived he would have returned home to us this week. “The week of your birthday,” he assured my nine-almost-ten-year-old self, although, it’s unlikely he could have known that for sure. Undoubtedly, just the promise a father makes to a daughter when the dates are near enough to not be a fib.