A Father’s Blessing
My father is a hard worker. He’d come home at the end of a long work day, often after 8pm, grumpy with low blood sugar and with the fatigue of a day rolling the stone back up the hill.
I have recollections of steering clear of him until he had a cold plate of something, because chances were, if he saw you before he ate, you were going to have a problem of some sort.
And yet somehow I have a strong sense of my father being on my side. I have some recollections of the kinds of encouragement, appreciation, and praise he bestowed on me.
I also have evidence (see Exhibit A).