leastbest - but still one of the best
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Prism
posted Thursday, 17 November 2005
Looking at my daughter is like looking through a prism.
Right now she is typing on her keyboard and I see a beautiful, intelligent girl of thirteen. Other times I look at her and see glimpses of the woman she will someday be.
Often I look at her and remember the wonderful child she was.
I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper one Sunday morning when my daughter climbed up next to me. At this time she was quite young. She held up a framed photo and asked, "Who is this man?"
She was holding a photograph of my father that I kept on my desk that I hadn't looked at in a very long time. "My father, your grandfather", I replied. She looked confused and looked at the picture again.
"Why haven't I met him?" she asked. I told her that he died when I was a child. She looked very sad and went back to studying the photograph. I looked at the photograph almost for the first time. My father was so young. In a few years he would be off to war, a couple more and kids would be on the way. Sixteen years after that he would die in a car accident.
After a time she asked, "Did you love him?" I smiled at her and answered, "With all my heart." She looked at me and said, "Then I love him too."
She took her time looking at the photograph and traced her finger on the outline of his face. Then she asked, "Do you miss him?" "Every day." I replied. She hugged me and said, "Then I miss him too."
Right now she is typing on her keyboard and I see a beautiful, intelligent girl of thirteen. Other times I look at her and see glimpses of the woman she will someday be.
Often I look at her and remember the wonderful child she was.
I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper one Sunday morning when my daughter climbed up next to me. At this time she was quite young. She held up a framed photo and asked, "Who is this man?"
She was holding a photograph of my father that I kept on my desk that I hadn't looked at in a very long time. "My father, your grandfather", I replied. She looked confused and looked at the picture again.
"Why haven't I met him?" she asked. I told her that he died when I was a child. She looked very sad and went back to studying the photograph. I looked at the photograph almost for the first time. My father was so young. In a few years he would be off to war, a couple more and kids would be on the way. Sixteen years after that he would die in a car accident.
After a time she asked, "Did you love him?" I smiled at her and answered, "With all my heart." She looked at me and said, "Then I love him too."
She took her time looking at the photograph and traced her finger on the outline of his face. Then she asked, "Do you miss him?" "Every day." I replied. She hugged me and said, "Then I miss him too."
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