Dad is a teather to me. He's more to me than almost everyone in the world. He is a father I can't begin to describe.
His hair is fluffy, and keeps a natural colour, though he is nearer 55 than 50 now. His beard is ginger, with wiry flecks of grey interupting the bright, sunshine mesh on his chin. His belly is big, round, and cuddley.
He's phlosophical. His mind goes deep, his stories are magically told, and hilarious to listen to.
He's not afraid of who he is. He's not afraid to be like a girl, because being a woman is not degrading to him. A compliment, if anything. He loves everything, he's a child in many ways. He keeps his childhood close to him.
He loves his music, though he can't play it. But he has a rhythm and a song deep within him, and he loves when his children sing for him. He drums a beat for them. He gets lost in the magical world of song, feels it around him, and tries so hard to make it himself, but it eludes him.
His painting, howeer, does not. He does portraits, and sees below the shadows and tints and vivid colour of the character, sees into their soul. Catches something a photograph never could. He leaves a detailed message in his landscapes, he stokes the skies and sweeps the clouds and ripples the water. He captures the beauty, because he doesn't see ugliness.
He's more than all this though. He doesn't judge, he doesn't anger, he doesn't hate, he doesn't wish for anything more than for the lesser suffering of others. He is nothing but compassionate and loving.
He's a father, a teacher, and I love him more than anything.