When I was small every step he took could span the globe. It was so hard to keep up with those superhero strides. His arms could reach clear across tables and from one end of the couch to the other. He rarely used a ladder. His face was scratchy when he didn’t shave for two days. It was a hilarious panic when he came in for a goodnight tuck-in and you knew he would rub his face on your forehead or cheek and you would laugh until you were done making noise and could only wheeze. His lap was huge, with seating for four at least. Somehow everyone got on. He had glasses that made his eyes seem bigger and he told people that his salt and pepper hair was getting more on the salt side of things. It was the funniest joke I’d heard until I was 10. He listened to John Denver songs and replayed small sections to point out Mr. Denver’s speech impediments. Somehow he knew. Once he told everyone in the car that he’d give a dollar for every hawk they spotted. Twenty-some bucks later, he called the deal off. He wasn’t mad, only broke.
Now I am even taller as he is and I know that my steps are small in the grand scheme of things and it takes millions to span the globe. My arms are long and I can reach things, but this only means that people are always asking me to get things off high shelves for them. I can grow a beard, a scraggly one at least, I can make it scratchy, but so can everyone else I know. I don’t mind when my cousins sit on my lap, as long as they stay still and don’t jab their boney elbows into my stomach. I don’t wear glasses and my hair is too blonde to make any seasoning jokes. I make my friends listen closely to lyrics that don’t make grammatical sense. They usually don’t listen. I once told my friend James that if he gave me a dollar I’d order a pink credit card. I’m a dollar richer, but with a credit card for a Care Bear in my wallet. For some reason I am hesitant to use it.
The biggest thing my Dad ever did for me was make small things huge and ordinary things amazing.
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