I remember…so long ago there were still water troughs on the corners for the street vendors’ horse-drawn wagons…my father coming home from work. I would spot him far off through the evening throng of returning workers. He walked with a distinctive, rolling gait, his shoulders rocking gently from side to side with each step he took.

Somehow, he never seemed to see me when he reached the corner of our street, but walked right on past without giving me so much as a glance. When I came after him, he eluded my outstretched hands and walked faster, finally breaking into a run that managed to keep him just beyond my grasp until he was a few yards from our gate. There, I invariably caught him.

Odd how such a tall, strong man always tired so quickly and had to slow his long stride to catch his breath. That never seemed to happen when he played baseball with his friends.