When I remember my father I see him wearing corduroy lederhosen, thick red socks,
hiking boots and most of all a red plaid shirt, pretty much like in the picture above.
That's how I saw him most Saturday mornings as he was leaving the house to go mountain climbing.
We would stumble into each other at the door, me ready for bed and the worst for wear, him with a rucksack stuffed with bottles of wine, salami and chocolate (essential mountaineering tools, so I was led to believe).
Wearing that red plaid shirt he reached the summit of Mont Blanc, in it he sat with his friends laughing, drinking hot wine, singing out of tune and leaving little mountains of breadcrumbs on the tablecloth.
In it he gave me hugs that smelled of sweat, pine trees and snow.
I wish I had that shirt now, to wrap myself in it.
The shirt is gone and so is my dad, I miss him so much even after all this time.
I was thinking about finding a substitute (for the red shirt, obviously, not my dad!), it as to be red and wool. I know I'm not supposed to wear red having red hair, it is a fashion rule that has been drilled into my head since I was a child and one I follow to this day, but I just don't care, for the perfect substitute all rules will have to go out the window!