<p>One morning while I was shaving， looking into the mirror<br />
squinting through the soap and the steam， I thought about put-<br />
ting my glasses on， 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， squinting the other way through the<br />
steam and the smoke， 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，<br />
Dylan， may not get to know me. I was in my fifties when Dylan<br />
was born， so even in the best of times I couldn t expect more<br />
than a score or so of years with him.<br />
<br />
</p>
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