I kissed his forehead. He stirred, mumbled, “Love you, kid.”
He had softer hands now. More gray. Slower to get up from the floor after playing with the dog. 315. Dad Crush
A Dad Crush, entry #315 in my mental catalog, is that specific, aching admiration you have for a parent before you understand the difference between love and longing. It’s the phase where your father becomes the benchmark for every man you’ll ever meet. He laughs, and you think, That’s what laughter should sound like. He fixes the garbage disposal, grease on his forearms, and you think, That is what safety looks like. I kissed his forehead