As a new mom with a new little man in my life, I find my thoughts turning often this year, to the very first man in my life. My dad. My hero. The strongest man I’ve ever known (and the most handsome!). Some mornings I wake up, and find it hard to believe that it has been seven years since he passed away. My memories of him are still sharp and run seamlessly through my mind, forever imprinted in my heart.
I find that these priceless memories have turned bittersweet over time. Because they bring home to me, the painful reality that my son will never know his grandfather. He will never meet the man with the easy smile and quick temper who gave me my love of books. He won’t get to know the well read, knowledgable man who always had an answer to all my questions (he was my version of the google search engine growing up), whether it was a difficult question in geometry or a random question about world affairs. He won’t learn honesty and integrity from one of the most ethical and morally upright men I have ever known. He won’t learn to be strong and courageous from a fighter like his grandfather was, the man who never gave up in spite of all the odds against him.
I want my son to know these things about his grandfather. I also want him to know the little things that linger in my mind when I think of daddy, the things that make me smile once in a while. His brown uniform from his SRF days when I would sneak on to the road on my cycle, to wait for his office bus to bring him home. His strange love for western novels by Earl Stanley Gardner. The way he teased my cousins and put them at ease. The way he would insist on reading my Mills and Boon library books much to my mortification.
Even though his time on earth was short, my dad left a mark on everyone he met. My son Rohan will never meet him or know him. But I hope that I can tell him and show him how to be a good human being just like his grandfather was.