Dad as Green

I always thought of my Dad as green. Sometimes dark blue, but usually deep green. He's not a minty guy, or a parsley man. British racing green moves a bit too fast for him, and olive, though attractive, is too smooth. He's a tortoise shell green: the pace is perfect, the texture quite weathered, the hues marble-y mixed, and with a wink he retreats into the world he carries on his shoulders.