Dad was born eighty-eight years ago today. He’s getting more and more difficult to imagine; different people age in different ways, at different paces. Many people I’ve known changed a lot between 72 and 88; I can imagine Dad with greyer, whiter hair, and somewhat diminished in overall size, but he might just as well have continued much as he was.

But I do miss him. I miss the joy he’d have felt at his great-grandchildren. I miss the pride he would feel at Nate and Pippa taking up the vocation of teaching, and I miss consulting him about pedagogical problems and trends. I miss being with him in England, which he had loved so; we were never here at the same time, never together. I miss the chance to take him to High Table at Oriel. I miss playing catch with him. I miss talking about my Orioles, his Red Sox, his Celtics and Steelers. I miss showing him around St Helen’s, and St Nic’s and St Michael’s.

Fifteen years is a long time, and I miss Dad.

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