I remember a time when
I thought my dad was the greatest
dad there was.
Reading to us before bed,
always calling me sweet pea and
making sure my coat was zipped up,
or that I drank all of my milk.
Taking us to state parks,
with a packed lunch.
He always smelled of black and mild
cigars, a warm leather coat
and cologne.
But his breath held a hint of beer.
Which is why I can remember thinking
that my dad was the worst dad
on earth.
Spending too much money on alcohol,
not helping pay for my clarinet,
getting too drunk at any family
gathering and choosing to
drive.
But now, I accept him for who he is.
And I thank him for all of the wonderful things he taught me about nature, and music, and for allowing my childhood to be filled with adventure.
Now, I don't think my dad is the greatest or the worst,
he's just mine.