<p>One morning while I was shaving&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; looking into the mirror<br />

squinting through the soap and the steam&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; I thought about put-<br />

ting my glasses on&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; the better to see my face. Of course that is a<br />

dumb idea: Would I shave over or under the stems? And the<br />

steam that fogged the mirror would fog the lenses even worse.<br />

But I bet a couple of million guys have tried it. The thought<br />

made me smile. And&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; squinting the other way through the<br />

steam and the smoke&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; I saw my father smiling back. I knew it<br />

wasn t my memory of my father that was smiling back at me--it<br />

was the part of my father that lives inside me.<br />

My father has been gone for more than twenty years. I knew<br />

him pretty well; I was almost forty when he died. But my son&iuml;&frac14;&OElig;<br />

Dylan&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; may not get to know me. I was in my fifties when Dylan<br />

was born&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; so even in the best of times I couldn t expect more<br />

than a score or so of years with him.<br />

<br />

&nbsp;</p>