Little Dad

When I was growing up, my dad and I had a relationship that both of us would probably describe as 'impossible.' There are lots of good memories, lots of typical child-vs-parent memories...
Now that I'm older, and have had the time and maturity to see my father as a whole person I understand (and love) him in a completely different way.

I've carried an old black and white picture of my father with me in all of my travels - sticking it on the wall with other photos, or on the refrigerator door (which has for me, in every house I've ever lived, always been a sort of collage of pictures and art...memories and wishes).

In the photo he is 11 years old.

Thinking of my father as that 11 year old, in a tiny three-piece Sunday suit and shiny shoes, with his sweetly mischievous little-boy smile, and the sticky-out ears has always helped me in my efforts toward this newfound perspective.

It's an epiphany, of sorts, that comes with seeing someone as a child - particularly if you have only ever known that person as an adult. It's a reminder that they were once that small, that vulnerable, that new to the world. It's a good exercise.

I've this new photo now that will join the other one, and follow me as I skip from country to country, missing my parents a little more with each passing season - all the missed holidays, birthdays, and opportunities to tell them in person that they are important to me. Always loving my father as my father, but also for that little guy he once was...and in some ways always will be.