The length of my father's stride always amazed me. I had to run three steps for every one of his, his cigarette smoke wafting past me. Here we are in 1978, me holding onto his legs. A sure way for me to keep up was to position myself just right, hang on tight and not let go. After he died suddenly this June, only 60, I took things from his house that had his Dad-smell of smoke and Old Spice and must, the smell of his 6-foot-4 hug around me: his pillow, his flannel shirt, a book kept on his dresser — the pages inside, when inhaled, render his easy presence, the assurance of his smile and his knowledge that everything would always be O.K. This is a photo of me holding on. I'm still not ready to let go.
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