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.