I never knew him when he looked like this photograph of him which was taken in a nightclub in London or Paris. He was one of the D-Day soldiers who came ashore in a hail of gun and cannon fire.
He survived and went on to marry after the war and have 3 children. I'm the middle child. I have his blue eyes and dark blond hair.
My older brother has his handsome features, and my younger brother, also handsome but not resembling him as much with his facial features, has his body shape and strength.
Daddy played the guitar and piano by ear. He had a great sense of humor, loved a good joke, and had a wonderful laugh.
I wish an impossible thing—to have known him in his youth when he was young and had the whole world in front of him.
From his World War 2 experiences—fighting in England, France, and Germany—he suffered from a back injury incurred when he carried a wounded friend to safety.
He also suffered from what we now call PTSD. I believe that arose from horrible abuse in his childhood coupled with memories of the war that haunted him—the dead and the dying and so many more awful things that he wanted to forget. I often wonder if that's why he developed Alzheimer's. In the end, he forgot everything.
If only I could have 5 minutes with him again. Five minutes to tell him how much more I appreciate him and everything he did and everything he was. Five minutes to tell him how much I Iove him.
TAKEAWAY TRUTH
If your father is still on this earth, take time to tell him the things he has done that you admire. Tell him you love him.
No comments:
Post a Comment