Spacious, dark oak deskholding a red pencilin a brightly lit room.Built by his splintered handsand intelligent brain.He is a carpenter.

Standing in wet sneakers on Conard Field,smiling,pointing his index fingerto where scrambling first-years should be.He is a football coach.

In my blue-sheeted bedhe lies,book in hand,reading,listening,and falling asleep beside me.He is my dad.