Every November

Every November, I remember my father.

Most especially, I remember his kindness; that thing he kept in his heart.

My father appreciated simplicity.

He loved his children, his wife.

On summer nights, he liked an ice-cold beer with his dinner.

He liked his eggs scrambled.

He liked his friends to be true.

Every November, the air takes on a chill and I remember my father — In my mind’s eye, he and I are outside; air escapes from my father’s mouth, bent as he is, on a conversation.

Watching him speak

I think about his heart, his lungs.

Breathing in, my father’s chest rises and I think:

“How wonderful God, giver of life.”

It doesn’t last —— the breathing.

Eventually my father’s heart, his lungs gave out; cancer the cause.

We mourned when the angels took him home.

We cried tears of sorrow.

Every November, on the day my father died, I make a point of remembering my father’s life, not his grave.

I remember his commitment to loving well and earnestly.

Every November, I give pause to a man whose life helped form mine. . . . Whose hands held mine when walking was new to me.

So it is in my memory my father lives.

It is in my mind I see him clearly.

Strong.

Calm.

Smiling.

Every November.