My heart knows what the wild goose knows...

“It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.”  —Anne Sexton
 

He loved duck hunting and wore a Fedora with a curly Mallard tail feather tucked into the band. In Autumn, when the Canada geese flew south in their long V’s, we could hear them honking even when they were invisible through the cloud cover. Dad would disappear after dinner and If we looked hard enough, we would see his cigarette glowing in the shadows up at the edge of the woods. He used to tell us that some morning when the geese were flying, we'd wake up to find him gone...a feather on his pillow.