Shenandoah

I didn't forget my dad's birthday yesterday.

It hasn't been that long.  He would have been 73.  The sharp knife of a short life.

I wrote the date with a steady hand all day.  I was going to listen to Shenandoah, the Chanticleer version, but I didn't have time to go there.

So, it's Friday night, groups are done.  Bill and the kids are at the school carnival, and I'm gonna listen to it now.

My dad would have loved it.  The barbershop harmonies.  The terribly sad theme.

It seems like I haven't seen any wild turkeys or bald eagles lately.
No big bucks staring at me from the backyard.

Maybe he knows we are doing okay down here.
Or maybe it's just wintertime.

I miss his smile. His wink. His hug. His big hands. His cowboy boots. The sound of him clearing his voice to sing. And his presence.

So, here's to you Daddy, we are doing okay.  But we still miss you.

Shenandoah. . . Chanticleer