Father, you died when I was five. That is what they tell me, I cannot possibly remember how old I was. And I have only one memory of you. It was around Christmas, there was a decorated tree in the corner, there was fire in the fireplace. Mother and sister were making shiny toys out of silver paper. You were sitting in a large red chair, reading a book. You had a sweater on with patterns that reminded me of windows covered with frost. I was playing at your feet. You looked down on me and smiled.
I remember the smells, the music coming out of the radio, I even remember the cover of the book you were reading. But I do not remember your face.