|Remembering Dad... (standard:poetry, 375 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Nov 29 2007||Views/Reads: 1692/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|...a hero in a child's life.|
‘You should have been here yesterday' he said, ‘she was sitting on that rock yonder.' Few visitors get to this corner of the beach, even at low tide. There are no inns nearby, no collectable shells hidden in the rough glassy sand. I come here all the time to meet with my father. He was never a seashore person, didn't know anything about early morning ebbs, spider crabs or seahorses. He was a military man in his youth, and later preferred tinkling with engines than scrambling over dunes, the sea oats and beach grass slapping his legs. I'm his eldest son, a dreamer, sometimes living in an Elizabethan era, sometimes sitting on the rings of Saturn thinking only in black and white, so discussion was sometimes difficult. I always imagine he will say that opening sentence to me, teasing my talent in some way, inviting me into a story that he had made up. But dad was a John Wayne man, action hero, and after a workday he'd watch television to relax. I can't recall him reading a newspaper at home. He did have a pile of western paperbacks to escape into, leave the humdrum of his life to become a hero. Dad was a hero, taking care of his children, working at providing without the use of a six-shooter. ‘I don't know about this, son.' He says, ‘I've only seen mermaids on camper doormats or pub mirrors.' He seems so out of place, so insecure sitting on a rock beside a restless, energetic ocean. He doesn't suit the wearing of shorts, or the Tilley hat on his head after a life lived in coverall, hands caked in oil and grease. I imagine him here because this is my gift to him. Who I am. His daydreaming son. I show him laughing gulls, the old coastguard station, and the lighthouse I use for my signature. This is my shore, dad, this is where to find me. Everything here happens grain by grain, one wave at a time coming ashore endlessly. The shoreline doesn't end, it merely changes shape and tomorrow we'll walk a wider shoreline and he'll say: ‘You should have been here yesterday.' I was, Dad, all your yesterdays. Thank you for loving me. Tweet
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