I was sitting on the living room floor amid a sea of garishly colored Barbie outfits, creating a world for Barbie and her consort. My mother lay limply on the couch, eyes closed, murmuring in monosyllables to my constant chattering. The house was quiet except for the rustling of clothes and the cracking of Barbie's plastic knees. I can remember the house suddenly coming alive. My father had walked through the front door. He was wearing his fireman's uniform-gray in drabbest sense, with a splash of red on the shoulder announcing his status at the firehouse. He came over to where I was sitting and lowered himself onto the black vinyl footstool. I was drawn closer to him, even as he spoke to my mother. His smell of fire smoke, Old Spice, and Daddy wafted over me. Soon I was sitting at his feet, then on his feet. He looked down at me and I offered up my Barbie and plaintively asked him to dress her for me. He tried, his big callused fingers attempting diligently to work the snaps. These same hands that tried so hard to braid my hair and failed at that too. I forgave him as he sweetly said, "I can't, Bug. I wouldn't want her to smell like me, all smoky." But I wanted her to; I wanted to. I needed to inhale the smell of him, it made me a part of him. He seemed almost ashamed of the smoke that clung to his uniform. I wasn't. It was honest in a way he couldn't always be.