Dadda...

He drove a red pick-up truck.
His words dripped Texas drawl thick as summer honey.
Laughter came easily and often, the echo of which remains in husband's joy.
His hands... rough, stained, black soil planted into the crevices of his palm.
Solid as a mountain path. 
He was proud (in the sweetest of ways).
God bestowed upon his shoulders many names...
farmer
husband
brother
son
Dadda
father
Grandpa
G
He believed that the moon could hold water... that cardinals signaled things to come.
He was flawed... and wounded... and lovely...
A fine masterpiece, with rips and coarse repairs around the gilded edges.
Heritage and stories clothed him with their strong fibers...
His legacy courses through the veins of husband...
A crimson arrow through the tomorrows of my children.
The earth he loved was turned by his hand even after his final breath.
His sanctuary was his tractor... dusty glass instead of stained...
Simple.
Strong.
True.
He is loved.
He is missed.
We are better because we knew... and were known by him.
Every day... but especially today... we remember.

Mighty Fine.