Sunday, June 21, 2015
My father was born in 1901. The pic shows a dapper young man, c 1920's. Full head of hair. I never knew my father with a full head of hair. By the time I was born he was 46 years old and bald. His waist had expanded, yet he still smiled with his eyes. I never knew him to smoke, the doctor, no doubt, strongly suggesting he not do so for the good of his health. Although, his health and good normally did not sit in the same sentence with any comfort. By the time I was little more than 7 he had died. My seven year old mind did not comprehend the finality of death and I awaited his return for years and decades, hoping that the lie would be over. He did not, could not return. The trauma of his death blotted out so many memories, as trauma does. Most of the stories I hold are stories told, not remembered, for to remember the times we spent together is to acknowledge how much I miss him. And I do. Sixty years later the feeling memories are held tightly. The sadness, yes, but also the feelings of being loved and cared for and connected with and talked to and believed in. From him, even holding him so briefly in time, I embraced his love of music and storytelling and, yes, baseball. And so much more. I am my father's daughter. He taught me to smile with my eyes.