It's the little things...

My father died in March, 2003.

I rarely miss him, cause I hardly knew the man. In my 40 years, I spent maybe at most, 5 years total with the man. I lived with him 12 of those years, but he went to work 6 days a week and went out to "business dinners" almost every night. I use quotation marks cause I've no idea whether it really was business-related or as my mother now claims, he was out carousing with women at nightclubs.

Yet, it's the little things... Admittedly, I think more about my lost loved ones during that time of the month. Yes, I'm pms'ing like crazy - of course I am. I'm going to go see Mark this weekend and his mother. What would a weekend with Mark be like without one of us pms'ing.

Anyway, I just used a pen I picked up off the the storage shelf. And it jolted me.

The ink was a dark blue black. It's a rare color for pens, but Parker used to manufacture it for their fountain pens. They still probably do. My father and I both love that color. When I saw the color of the ink, I nearly dropped the pen. Before my eyes, my signature morphed into that of my father's, with its crisp angles, the exactitude of the slash, the indecipherability.

I loved to watch my father sign things. He always had such an air of authority whenever he signed checks, documents.

In some ways, I fashioned my signature after him. I loved how abrupt he was with his signature. How, to me, it looked like a stamp, it was so precise. I feel like a fraud at times when I sign my documents. My signature shifts every day no matter how hard I try and make it as precise as my father's. But, I realize to others, my signature looks stamped. And abrupt. And crisp. So dad, in some ways, your youngest daughter does honor you.

Filed under Bloodsport, err Relatives.