Notes to Self -XII. My Father

Poor is relative. We weren’t truly poor, we managed somehow to cross the gap between being poor and being on the other side of it.  

We met our American guest with all the honors including a nice dinner my creative mother prepared from almost nothing.  My father contributed to this dinner what he could manage, a bottle of brandy saved for a special occasion.

We sat at the long coffee table in the living room.  My father worn his favorite slightly worn gray suit and a black sweater that made him look much younger.

My early memories of him are often vague, curly hair the color of light brown combed slowly and carefully straight back in the lustrous wave, his hands lifting me up and flying with me around and above his head and laugh, happy and loud, until my concerned mother says enough, please put her on the floor.

A few years ago my father stepped from his role, a powerful and knowledgable patriarch of the family.  He played this role for so long that at some point he decided enough was enough and created some formal space between him, my mother and me.

At our table he was the only one in our family who spoke fluent English, the only one who made jokes, the rest of us were silent, pretending that we understood almost everything what was said.  We were smiling, making short laughs and then disappeared in the kitchen showing how busy we were. 

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Eleanor Roosevelt said once, " Do one thing every day that scares you."

Writing in English scares me but I write anyway. My writing is often awkward but the process itself is exciting. It's like living and breathing words.

Generally, life is good!