Luke Russert

“We work our way back through the
crowd. A few steps behind, holding Dad’s hand, I keep my eyes affixed to the back of his white polo shirt. The outline of his wallet is visible through his back pants pocket, stained into the old khakis. A hanky to wipe his brow creeps out of the other pocket. He clips his beeper tightly to his belt—it’s his
post-work Sunday casual uniform. As we move faster through the horde, the sweat on our palms intensifies on the humid mid-Atlantic summer day. For a second, his grip slips and we become disconnected. I fall back a few feet as people aggressively pass by.
I never lose sight of the man in the white shirt. Immediately Dad turns around, his face concerned but focused. He jogs back and grabs my hand tight, locking his big thumb and fingers around my wrist. He pulls me in. His other hand now sits across my shoulder, a protective hold.
“Buddy, if we’re ever separated, just look for me there,” he says, pointing at a hot dog stand with a big, memorable Oriole bird logo.
He pauses and looks me up and down. “But we won’t ever be separated.”
― Luke Russert, Look for Me There: Grieving My Father, Finding Myself