It's Sunday morning and I'm drinking coffee and watching the wind blow the leaves past my window. Sunday morning was always coffee with Dad, whether we were sitting across from one another or long distance. I called my father every Sunday morning, just to chat about my week, and we'd pause every so often to refill our cups. That may be the one thing I miss most about my father, those Sunday mornings.

If I were down visiting, my brother would come over and the three of us (and sometimes my nieces, too) would do chores around the yard. One fall day, while my brother and Dad were working on the furnace, I started raking up the leaves where they were collecting outside the cellar door. They finished tinkering with the furnace and came out to see what I was up to. I had a giant pile of leaves by that point and was amusing myself by tossing sticks into the pile and watching Clancy the Wonderdog dive in after them, disappearing into the leaves before bursting back out with the stick I'd thrown. The next thing I knew, Dad was making a running jump and he disappeared into the pile of leaves. The nieces (five and seven) heard us laughing outside, and came out and joined in the fun. It didn't matter that my hard work got spread out again, because that happy memory will remain forever.