My Father’s Legacy
by Dianne Moritz
Skipping home from charm school, I
stopped to catch a glimpse of a stranger in the deli’s plate-glass window:
teased hair, lips painted fuchsia pink, tweezed eyebrows penciled black — a new
me!
I struck a pose and sauntered on.
Mother was waiting. “What have you
done?” she cried. “Your father’s legacy. Ruined! Go wash your face.”
That night, I stole the single
photograph hidden inside a Sinatra LP, brought my dictionary to bed. I
gazed into my father’s eyes, ran a finger down his straight nose, across his
bushy brows. I fell asleep, his perfect, sculpted lips pressed lightly to my
own.
* * * * *
Sweet!
ReplyDeleteSo much life in this little gem, Dianne!
ReplyDeleteDianne has a gift for making her words so visual....luv this! Lainie B.
ReplyDelete