Any more of an early morning I can be found pondering, my hands folded upon which rests my chin, as in this portrait of my father, the wisps of his whiskers forming a wreath around his seafaring-like weathered and wrinkled skin.
Furrowed brow and wisdom lines, etched and crinkled, wander away across his face and from the corners of his eyes.
His gaze is reflective, as if lost in thought, looking out, somewhere, far into the distant past.
My father and mother are gone now, have been for many years.
And his portrait; and the hatch covers of old wooden sailing ships my father collected that eventually became the office desk; and the beautifully restored Chris Crafts he meticulously sanded and varnished; and the pristine Willits canoe complete with sail; and so much more are all but charred remains, destroyed by fire.
And my wife, just shy of seven months ago, is gone, lost to cancer after 50 years of marriage.
And any more of an early morning I can be found pondering, my chin resting upon folded hands, lost in thought, looking out, somewhere, far into the distant past.