As children many of us look at our parents and think who are these giants. We paint in our small minds a masterpiece of these near ethereal beings. They attain such high status in our minds. They become immortals impervious to anything and everything that comes along. Essentially (undoubtably unhealthy) we make idols of our parents. Then the teen years hit, the age of stupidity and narcissism, when we turn ourselves into what we held our parents up to be.
It isn’t until we are older, maybe even too late, that we manage to discover our heroes’ kryptonite. Old age.
My father turned 49 on Friday. In the morning while my mom braided my hair, I leaned my head on her knee and began to shed some tears. My daddy, my beloved untouchable papa was aging. How? Why? I can remember looking at him believing he could do anything.
He stumbles home from work too tired to stay awake to eat, much less watch a movie with his family. His hands and knees, hurt him the most. I can only imagine he is in pain all the time . . . no peace. Yet my dad does not complain. He continues to work hard supporting his family.
At that moment having the selfish thoughts of not wanting him old for myself, to keep my own memories of unstoppable dad intact, he had left a note to us on his birthday. Isn’t it supposed to be vice versa?
“By God’s Amazing Grace - I’m 49 Today! 10 years longer than my momma!. . .”
(My grandma past away when my dad was 16.)
I cried more and thought my dad is always looking to the bright side despite all the hardships he has been through. A biased opinion it may be, but my dad, my dear dear papa is the most courageous person I know. Happy Birthday!
