When I was little, my dad seemed so large. His voice was booming and his temper was hot. And though he stood 5’8″ – at most – he loomed over us. A force, like the teacher at the head of the classroom that he’d been for many years prior to my birth, or the lawyer advocating for workers rights as he was then. 

In the early 70s, he grew a beard. It came in more red than brown, a bit like Chris Kringle, and I thought it meant maybe we were less Jewish now? Then came the lamb chop side burns and the tan leisure suits during his dating phase which coincided with Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy.” My dad was a force then. And he still is, but now, he’s shrinking. Right before our eyes, the man who talks over everyone, still, weighs in at 140 lbs. 

I hear him this morning, through the thin walls of my little townhouse, sharing the headlines of the day with his wife. He’s a historian and a news junkie. He’s always been a good talker and a shite listener. Now, at 91, his hearing is so compromised that he doesn’t have to pretend to hear you. He just talks at you. Like he’s always done. Last night coming home from the airport, he gave me kudos for having a “neat” house, and he was happy with the chicken, butternut squash broccoli I’d had the foresight to roast ahead of time. He’s a hard person to please, but for the moment, it seems I’ve done alright. I know because in his own way, he told so.

There’ll be a load of compromisin’

On the road to my horizon

But I’m gonna be where the lights are shinin’ on me…