The kerchief was stiff with salt, sweat, and machine oil. She pressed it to her face.
It was him, alright. Not much of a dad. Always working, drinking, fighting, womanizing. Never home.
He couldn’t make her bedtime, but could always make her laugh.
She breathed him in one last time.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
