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 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 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.