Last week was a week of sorts. For one, 6 March marked the five-year anniversary of the passing of my father at just 74 years of age. I was rummaging through some odds and ends in an attempt to mimic absentminded cleaning–I’m sure y’all can relate to moments like that.

So, below are two short stories that I put together some time ago when I was thinking of him:

Dad’s Bag

He carried in his weathered hands supported by lithe, tanned arms speckled with an array of earned scars, bags that were too small to be called bags, too big to be knapsacks, but nevertheless I call them bags for lack of another word.

These bags were the same size as a gentleman’s shaving kit, although encased in the finest, softest leather–perhaps from an Argentinean Brahma that had given its side skin to produce such a bag of creamy texture.

These bags my father carried with the style of a gentleman and the substance of an officer; they had a leathery strap attached to one side, producing a loop through which one could slide his forearm.

Along the top line, railroad tracks meshed, interlocked and only unlocking with the clicking feel of a zipper as a fastener or a looser.

On the port side, there rested two pouches, big enough for a wallet or a pack of Camels; the pouches sighed with exhausted airs each time my father’s thin, cappuccino toned fingers freed their clasps to retrieve a possession.

The two pouches had identical fasteners, their buttontops blending almost imperceptibly, save for their glossy finishes, into the dark hues of the Argentinean Brahma.

The starboard side featured a cragged and oblong verse of intertwined teeth that opened at the pull of a worn zipper whose finer days had shown deep and rich luster amidst a proud shine.

In this pouch, he kept his keys, tablets and sunglasses.

He carried his bag atop his sinewy and muscular forearms, in the style that befit a gentleman, with the substance of a former United States Navy enlisted man.

Dinnertime

Father always came to the kitchen for dinner on his own time. He would park his slim 5′10 frame in the master bedroom after work, freshening up with a shave and his usual dollop of Aramis.

Every time I see or smell Aramis, its unique endearing odor compels me to think of a rolling prairie meadow that lets the wind rustle the long grasses in the waning hours of summer days, coupled with bold arboreal fragrances and laundry detergent; a lingering thought always remains in my mind.

He would sit in front of the mirror, call back to his wife of 20 years, and with a furtive “I’ll be there” in the middle of stretching his chin upwards, shaving off the remnants of Gillette Shaving Cream with his double-insert razor.

Daddy would wink at my reflection in the mirror and tell me to go help my mother get the table set. His olive skin looked radiant on this particular summer evening–I left as he was daubing that Aramis on his cheeks with his slender hands.

Mama and I would sit at the table, all the aromas of her cooking wafting through the air and into my nose–she would sigh with exasperation and eye the wall-mounted grandfather clock, its long hands watching over the pendulum that marked each passing second, bringing the spindly hands closer to the next Roman Numeral.

Just when Mama was about to throw in the towel and tell me to start eating, I would see Daddy come down the hallway, through the kitchen doorway, across the living room and its arch, to the hallway that led to our bedrooms.

I would say, “Daddy’s coming!” and Father would disappear just briefly as he crossed the space on the other side of the living room wall, and reappear with a comically amazed look on his face, begetting childish laughter that left my lips, announcing his arrival, taking in the sights and smells of Mama’s daily feast.

He would come down and sit in his usual space, off to my right, with Mama directly across from him, at my left, and say:

“Wow, what a meal! Let’s see how it tastes!”

—-All in his own time.

Dad–thank you for those memories, for being there, and for being the best father you could be. See you one of these days–I know you’re enjoying the all-you-can-eat Italian buffet laid out up there! Save me a couple pieces of antipasti!