I often think back to my relationships with my parents, how they changed over the years and how different experiences molded and shaped my perceptions and memories.
At one time my dad could do no wrong; until he accidentally hit my thumb with a hammer when I was helping him do a job in the garage.
Mum? She was a true master of the kitchen, turning out wonderful cakes and biscuits, often taken for granted, but sorely missed when she was no longer well enough to do her own cooking ... and finally no longer with us.
I often look back over these often turbulent times and remember that through it all they were my mum and dad; making mistakes, as I now do with my own children; trying to be this thing called a parent without any formal training other than 'on the job'.
Although, they were flawed, like I am flawed, I somehow saw beyond their failings and looked-up to them just because they were mum and dad. I often wish that I could look through my own mistakes and the mistakes of others and love the person underneath; warts and all.
I recently received a poem from a lady who obviously experienced similar tensions, trials and no doubt, exasperation with her father ... but beneath, he was still 'dad' and she still loved him for who he was in spite of what he did. Enjoy ...
To My Late Dad
Oh dad you would still not be too old
to debate and triumph in this world!
To still play host, mentor and guide
- you should still be here at our side.
Elders thought sons would live on
- so devastated now you're both gone.
A whole life's story you have missed,
a generation never held or kissed!
Your doctor warned you well I think
of over-indulgence in food and drink
But no, you failed to take advice
even when threatened once or twice.
Cutting back, you said, no option
rich food, fine wine intoxication.
Life so full of such temptations
would not submit to deprivations.
But dad, you would still not be too old
to be loved and cherished in this world.
Copyright © December 2007 Debra Dando