Dancing on my father’s shoes

In an hour, I’m going to pick my Dad up at his assisted living apartment for a nice Father’s Day dinner. As I was dressing, choosing something kind of feminine, a memory flashed through my mind of my five-year-old self in a party dress and black patent Mary Jane shoes. I was waltzing with my Dad to live band music – perhaps on the S.S. Lurline ocean liner that took us from San Francisco to our posting on Oahu – transported across the floor as I stood on the tips of his well-shined shoes.

These days, my Dad leans on me for many of the simplest activities. But in many ways I am still carried and supported through life by the love he has given me in the fifty years since that waltz. I’m still dancing on my Daddy’s shoes.