I remember my father
 

I remember my father, coming home weekends
in his armysuit, driven by a chauffeur in his jeep.
Game was: him holding his hands behind his back,
we had to choose wich hand the sweets were in
And we always choosed the right one.

I remember my father, taking us out in the country.
Walking through bushes and swimming in the river.
From him, I learned to have respect for living nature,
pay attention to all those little creatures called bugs.
And I still look at them in my garden.

I remember my father, celebrating New Years Eve
with surprise presents, made of little coloured boxes,
deformed into houses, faces, dogs and we had to
open them, without tearing, to get to the sweet inside.
And I did this a long time with my children.

I remember my father, painting and sculpturing,
for he was an artist who made beautiful things.
He had to teach at highschools, to support us.
I was given his early work and holidaydrawings.
And I inhereted some creativity from him.

I remember my father, picking apples from the tree,
in october and the whole family was there to help.
He sat on the lawn, to separate the good from the bad.
Some turned to applesauce, the rest went in the cellar.
And I don't do that, we don't have a cellar now.

I remember my father, not as a religious person.
He was not raised that way, but my mother was.
They let us free to choose what we thought right.
He was more 'christian' than many christians I know.
And I try to live up to the things he valued.


 
 
 
 
 
Worldwide 2001 by Titia Geertman


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