My Father, My Dad

Across the table I see a man. In him I see me. Well, not exactly me. I see where 'me' comes from. Or at least partially comes from. He likes to remind me that he's much older, he would say he's much wiser, and there's no denying we're related. As we eat I stare at him; observe, is a better word. His skin color is a dark brown with reddish undertones. Skin color you might normally see derived from the Indigenous peoples of Mexico. He's an attractive man, in my opinion, with the draw of his personality adding to his physical attributes. He's extremely likable and in the eyes of at least a ten-mile radius of Phoenix natives, he's a local celebrity.

I've always perceived him as laid-back, relaxed and funny as heck! He loves to laugh, as evident by the laugh lines at the edges of his eyes. Some people, these days, go to ridiculous means to cover up those lines. Not this man. I know for a fact that he's proud of every line. Proud of the gray hairs that randomly appear throughout his naturally black locks. A man of few words with the talent and voice of an angel. Okay, maybe not an angel, but the man can sing. He's always told me that he sings from his throat when he should be singing from his gut. Forty or so years of performing is proof that regardless, his voice has done him well. His guitar, a vintage Fender Telecaster, has been with him longer than any significant other. Watching him play that instrument, while singing and pumping up the crowd is quite amazing. What a gift he has. What a gift he shares.

Across the table I see a man. In him I see me. Well, not exactly me. I see where 'me' comes from. Or at least partially comes from. He likes to remind me that he's much older, he would say he's much wiser, and there's no denying he's my father.