Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Fatherhood
Does the apple ever fall very far from the tree?
After my father died, my sisters and I had a little stone bench built near his grave. Inscribed black marble, “In Loving Memory…”, it’s a tiny memorial that sits under a tiny pine tree in a quiet corner of a large cemetery, far down by the coast where he lived.
Though it is far, I sneak away when I can and sit on the tiny bench. I lean my back against the little pine tree and stare into the sky. I listen to the trees murmur in a language I long to understand. Mourners come and go, but none disturb my refuge. Time passes while I watch the clouds contort, trying to impress the sky with their acts of mimicry.
Sometimes I think of the day my father died. That was the day I first realized that I was truly on my own. The teaching was done. No more advice would be given. I hoped I had learned all that I needed to know - everything that I would one day be called upon to teach before my time, too, was done.
Tiny things conjure my father’s memory, his voice, to my mind. I find that many of his favorite things have become my favorite things. Rocks on distant shores, open spaces, a bent rod, a singing reel, wrought wood, well cooked fish, novels about the sea...
It’s been said that men eventually become an image of their fathers, and I hear others lament the inexorable transformation. For my part, I’m content with the change.
After my father died, my sisters and I had a little stone bench built near his grave. Inscribed black marble, “In Loving Memory…”, it’s a tiny memorial that sits under a tiny pine tree in a quiet corner of a large cemetery, far down by the coast where he lived.
Though it is far, I sneak away when I can and sit on the tiny bench. I lean my back against the little pine tree and stare into the sky. I listen to the trees murmur in a language I long to understand. Mourners come and go, but none disturb my refuge. Time passes while I watch the clouds contort, trying to impress the sky with their acts of mimicry.
Sometimes I think of the day my father died. That was the day I first realized that I was truly on my own. The teaching was done. No more advice would be given. I hoped I had learned all that I needed to know - everything that I would one day be called upon to teach before my time, too, was done.
Tiny things conjure my father’s memory, his voice, to my mind. I find that many of his favorite things have become my favorite things. Rocks on distant shores, open spaces, a bent rod, a singing reel, wrought wood, well cooked fish, novels about the sea...
It’s been said that men eventually become an image of their fathers, and I hear others lament the inexorable transformation. For my part, I’m content with the change.