Dad at Home
My father is no performer. He doesnít pose naturally for pictures. The smile always seems forced. His eyes donít radiate. His body language suggests a strained relationship with his environment.
It must have been the wafting aroma of perfectly cooked chicken on our portable, Coleman stove. Maybe the makeshift tools in his hands sent a relaxing signal to his shoulders. The universe came into order at our Big Bend National Park campsite. My dad beamed on center stage.