Papa, how I miss you, as I sit alone with a glass of wine. Summer Home Sauvignon Blanc, the drink you always favored. I swirl the glass thinking of the times you would sit at the head of our table while enjoying a plate of your famous Belgian spaghetti. You would hold a Gittane cigarette in your left hand between your index and middle finger, your palm holding up your head. Your face would be in a book as you slowly ate. Michael Crichton, Dick Francis, Clive Cussler, and Tom Clancy- Just a few of your favorite authors in your large library. Blue-grey eyes would be hidden behind thick glasses as you quickly scanned the pages line for line. Your mind leisurely digested the words with a silent appreciation. Every few minutes you'd take a pause to graciously lift your chilled glass, and slowly sip the liquor. I would observe you turning the pages, wondering what your imagination was cooking as it was immersed in your latest book of worship. I recall how annoyed you would get when I asked what you were reading. Your answers would inspire a whole set of new questions. Your patience was tested as you calmly answered each one. Learning quickly, I made sure not to disturb you in your pure adoration of fiction. My eyes stare now at that empty chair; your jeweled throne. My ears miss the sound of your quiet turning of pages, and the gentle chimes of ice colliding with glass in that grapey ocean. My soul misses the wine that you sipped in modest amounts, that bitter royal beverage.