it was 1985 and we headed up the street, dad in his fancy shirt and me with my hair careful-combed. my brownie troop (plus a whole lot of freshly spruced fathers) flocked to ms kissinger's garage-turned-ballroom, a melange of giggles and aftershave that signaled dad-daughter date night.
we twisted spaghetti and sang father songs that started off shy but ended at optimum volume, and so much would come later, all the teenage snark and boys and growing up and away, but it was 1985 and i only had eyes for my father.
you loved me something heroic then, dad, and somehow you've never stopped. happy father's day. i'm so glad you're mine.
Today's Amharic Lesson #30, Clothes Part II
15 hours ago