Monday, May 9, 2011

Memory of a father

Every Mother's Day I think about my father.  I remember all the Mother's Day's we had as kids and the things my dad would do for my mom. When I got older he would do those things for me. Buy me flowers, show up with a Rhodie or Rose bush for my yard. Sometimes it was just a candy bar, sometimes earrings. You never knew. Always a hug and kiss. I miss my dad more than I can say. I envy those who have their fathers into their own ripe old age. I have some friends who lost a parent at a young age and I am grateful to have had mine father into my twenties. But that doesn't stop the ache.  Recently on Facebook friends added their mom's picture in honor of Mother's Day. I added both my parents.  I found myself  looking at the smiling face of my father and a flood of memories came crashing in. It was nice to know that I hadn't forgotten how he looked, his laughter or his voice. It makes my heart flip flop to remember some of the teen memories and young adult memories. I sure could of used my dad's input and support on some of the adult life decisions I've had to make. I really think my life would of taken a different path if he had been here. Or maybe I would of ended up in the same place without so much heartache. who knows? Anyway, I came across a Billy Joel song that I hope one day will be how my children feel about me. As it is how I feel about my dad.

I didn't intend this blog to be sad or wistful. Nor did I intend "Cobwebs in the Corner" to be a therapy session. Sometimes things could out of our fingers that we have worked hard to seal in our brains. : )
Here is a list of things that remind me of my dad. Feel free to add your own.

Music

singing
laughing
working in the dirt
large sunflowers that are 8 feet tall
old vehicles
overalls
the smell of just cut grass
a breeze
Old Spice
"tut tut smells like rain" (and it does)
suspenders
dimples
warm hands
smile lines
a warm house
the Christmas tree lit up when I wake up in the morning


just to name a few...

No comments:

Post a Comment