My father's long fingers smooth over the aged scratchy pleats. The Kilt is magnificent. It has the fleeting beauty that only a well kept antique has, that warm firelight glow of the past. It has a few scuffs and holes, but the somber reds and greens of clan Mackintoish have settled into the cloth and darkened pleasantly. The kilt is always the most important detail, it has passed from grandfather down, and it looks as handsome now as in the sepia photographs on our shelves. The dirks black ornate hilt rests heavily against his hip, and the belt is cinched tightly to hold it up. you can practically hear bagpipes My grandfather's dark green cotton socks sit near the top of my father's calf and he leans over to adjust the frills. And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows in concentration, and his admittedly attractive white whiskers scrape across his collar, and the image nears completion, the drum beats louder. Reaching up from the ancient past and grasping the future in tradition, the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise, and he suddenly appears less like my father and takes on the swagger of a cocky fisherman, of pirate. He is swinging swords and playing pipes, and cobbling, and setting stones upright in ancient forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers. I know looking at him now, what my own ghosts will be when my time comes.