DAD

Sixteen years after his death, I can easily access a number of mental images of my father, but there is one that stands out above all the others. In my favorite memory of the man he is sitting with his elbows on the kitchen table and one hand folded into the other, and as the dish of pasta is set before him his face is transformed into one of absolute delight and an audible “ahhhhhhhh” escapes from somewhere within. My father loved pasta and never failed to express his appreciation for every opportunity to indulge his love. Even after he lost most of his speech and some motor functions to a stroke (which he survived for about a year) this simple display of joy at the dinner table never faltered, and in fact may have even become a bit more pronounced. I do not doubt that in some way this whole pasta affair is my attempt at emulating my father. Did I mention that he also loved wine?

He would be 98 years old this month.