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.