Ode to My Dad
Stong, hard hands.
Gentle at times.
Serious when called for.
Shoulders broad enough to cry on.
Yet small enough to snuggle his little girl.
Sandpaper cheeks after a day's growth of beard
Became silky smooth after I helped him shave.
He started out so young and brave,
But, ever so gradually, the years wore him down.
Once, he gripped my hands as I took wobbly little steps.
Later, I helped him as his steps became more and more unsteady.
I used to love for him to hug me close.
The scent of his Old Spice made me feel safe.
Later, he loved to get hugs as I came for visits.
A smile would crease his face as he drew comfort from me.
He may be gone from me physically,
But I feel him close to me every day.
We still walk together---he and I.
Our paths have merged in the Circle of Life.
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