Umbrella

I missed him more this week than I ever have.

I remembered his veins as thick purple tracks on the backs of his hands. And the way he would squint behind his glasses.

I heard the low tones of his voice as I drove on the blacktop snaking through the woods.  The sun was setting behind the forest and the trees pressed closely along the road.  Slowly it grew dark.

A memory turned over in my mind; his toast at the double wedding in 1997.  After a story about grandma's garden, he thanked the parents of the brides for giving us their two flowers.  Side by side, in wide white gowns and veils, two brides were the fragile wildflowers of early spring.

One summer evening 50 years ago, we parked along the shoulder of the access road to Westlake and waited for the fireworks to begin.  Suddenly there was an explosion at the launch site and rockets erupted at ground level.  He turned around and ran to us, arms spread wide, as if to funnel us to safety. "Kids, get behind the car.  Get behind the car."

During times of heartbreak -- and there have been a few -- he was there with arms spread wide, an umbrella offering shelter, even though he couldn't stop the rain.