My father weighed 67 pounds when he died, but that’s not how I remember him. I remember him in his prime.
Every morning as he got ready for work, he would sing. He had a strong, steady baritone, unwavering and simple. He would stand in front of the mirror and pat Jovan Musk on his cheeks and sing, “I’m so handsome,” and wink at himself. He was only half-joking.
His tan skin showed few creases, his short, curly ‘fro had no hints of gray, even as he aged into his 40s.