[He would have been 76 today. But where he is, he can choose the age he wants to be. And I think he would have chosen those golden years of my childhood, and his early fatherhood.]
Most people measure life by how far they have come. Not so my father- he was content to stay still and watch the moss grow. While other fathers were in the bar sharing a drink, he was teaching me to appreciate rocks- the whorls on piece of agate, the jagged edges of a quartz crystal and the mica powder that clung to your fingers. No mindless movement for him; he had time for those he loved.
Some stones can never stay still, rocks cling steadfastly to what they hold dear. Solid, as a rock was my father- always gathering moss.
A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.