I don't really remember all of him.
Not always can I place his face, or the pattern of his footsteps.
But I don't think I'll ever forget the smell of my father. Like rain and stale beer. Intoxicating and sickening, but it was a scent I came to know and love.
Also, I don't think the memory of his laughter, loud and booming, will ever fade. It was infectious and rare. A memory I grasp for when I feel low.
I can't tell you the color of his eyes or the length of his hair. But I'll always know the sound of my father, a sound I feared and craved.
But I was so little and so was the time he stayed.
No, I don't really remember my father and I'm not sure if I'll ever want to.