We have some enormous icicles hanging from our lean-to greenhouse. Some of them are over three feet long. And what do icicles make me think of? My father. I have very few memories of "Daddy." He died when I was six. I never called him "Dad" or "Father (with an eye roll)." He will always be "Daddy," because he wasn't there when I would have grown out of it.
One of the few memories I have is the day I was "helping" him knock icicles off our garage. I must have been about three. Predictably, one of the ice spears landed just below my left eye. I still have the scar.
Funny, though. The only think I remember about the day is having fun helping my "daddy." I don't remember getting hurt. Or how fast he must have run into the house with me. Or how my mother reacted. I bet it wasn't pretty. But they were, weren't they?
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