After a family dinner the other night, Papa Bob regaled us all with embellished versions of his recent and first-ever skydiving adventure. He said he was dizzy from the altitude-"12,000 feet!"—but the instructor sort of nudged him out of the plane. "Sixty-five seconds of free falling," he said. "I loved it. I should have been aparatrooper(伞兵)." Then he said, "I didn't even dent this new titanium knee."
He loves getting cards in the mail, and usually I'm late, so instead I call him on Father's Day. But this year I've decided to be early for once. Before he takes another skydive or afrigid(寒冷的)lake swim, I want to let him know how much he means to me. Dad, thank you—for all of it. For playing catch in the backyard, the stories, the homegrown tomatoes, the running shoes, college, the first-aid kits (he likes us to be prepared for his visits) and mostly for your enduring faith that everything will be OK. It is, because you are my dad.
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