17

He wore a blue shirt, jeans and shoes; he smelled like stone and time. If a man could be measured, he’d be my daddy’s height and width. I remember him taking pills his doctor made him take and joking about the needle he had to stick in his belly, making us laugh while death sat outside in the cold, cursing my father’s defiance. I stared at this man I still see as a giant in my heart (even though I weigh more than him now) this man I’ve held as the standard, this human I cite as the reason I can love as a man, that I can live as a man. I look at my father, and within my smile I thank him for the compassion, the love and the providence he instilled in this child he never had to give his name when I got here, and I am grateful that love in itself makes you family.