Paul

My dad was pure summer. A golden boy. Sun kissed and shining. An earth sign. 

Taurus. Will like a bull. Elegance like a matador. His passion was for living.

 The simple pleasure of being in an animal body that worked. 

An image of him that remains steadfast in my mind’s eye is of him cutting the grass in late July. Shirtless pushing the mower up and down the slope of our lawn. His big hands hanging on till all the grass was finally done. 

Then stripping down he would jump into the pond. His splash like a laugh that burst through the din of cicada songs. 

I remember him on those hot summer days drinking cold beer all afternoon long. 

The sweat on his brow he cooled down with a wipe of the can. 

He was such a beautiful man. 

I remember his arms. His tanned skin pulled tight over his muscles. He was the strong man in my circus childhood. 

And I remember his arms after 13 years of Parkinson’s disease being alien to me. The loose skin hanging in defeat. 

One early morning in late July he woke up and took too many pills; left a note for my mom on the window sill.

The last time I saw him was earlier that summer. Just weeks before at my sister’s wedding. He’d been nervous to walk - well shuffle is more like it - her down the aisle. 

So they swayed together as Sinatra played and they made it to the end in style.

Pride like a bull. Vanity like a matador. The strongman of my childhood.