Today is my Dad's birthday. He would have been 72. I drew my friend Kokopelli the day he passed away. In my mind's eye, he capers merrily on the same red stone on which Dad etched the Nativity that he gave me.
I find that I miss Dad more all the time. I think of him frequently, often in unusual circumstances, like merging onto the highway. I hear his voice all the time, too, oftentimes it's just the brief answering machine message that he recorded long, long ago: "Leave your name and number at the tone."
These are the ghosts of him to which I cling.
Happy birthday, Dad.