Mindful

Thanks to architectural tours 'round the Windy City, I'm familiar with Mies van der Rohe's declaration that God is in the details.

And so it is that I'm reminded of my father wherever I happen to be. It's often in the most peculiar moments and minutiae that I see his face.

At Flying Fish for a family-day lunch yesterday, my crispy salad, of all things, jogged the memory of one of his oft-repeated tales: the time he introduced me to fried oysters.

Like the beagle, I'd begged for a taste from his plate. And, like the beagle, I'd promptly declared it inedible by sticking out my tongue at him.

Meaningful? Not in the slightest. But the mindfulness: well, it's reassuring, somehow.

He's not gone, for heaven's sake; right at the moment, he's only a state line away, and he's promised to visit us in a few days.

But I find a small comfort in knowing that he can be conjured so easily, simply by opening my eyes to what surrounds me.