October 26th
Today is seventeen years since my father had a very sudden heart attack and died. He was only 43. My mother was 40, I was 7 and my brother was 3.
I just want to say that if you have a father, go hug him or call him and tell him you love him. That would make me happy today. (And if you don't--hug or call your mother.)
Also, offerings of Tim ( Read more... )
I just want to say that if you have a father, go hug him or call him and tell him you love him. That would make me happy today. (And if you don't--hug or call your mother.)
Also, offerings of Tim ( Read more... )
***
Bruce didn't remember his parents. He vaguely remembered some things. His mother liked flowers and his father liked watching golf. "Come and play, Daddy," he would say, and his father would reply that he'd come out after the game was over.
But golf games were the longest thing ever.
Alfred helped him to remember, always answered questions and told stories. He would tell Bruce all the ways he was like his parents and ways he was different.
One time, when Bruce said he wasn't going to eat any more peas, no matter what Alfred said, Alfred just burst out laughing.
"I don't have to eat them?" Bruce asked hopefully.
"No, you will finish those peas," Alfred answered, "but you looked exactly your father. Your father told me once that there would be no more spinach in the Wayne household. Now, eat up."
As Bruce grew older, he appreciated those small reminisces more and more. Alfred would just drop memories into his life, precious memories that Bruce treasured more than anything, but kept it as casual as asking to pass the salt, so Bruce never had to feel awkward about it.
"I know you're rolling your eyes at me--your father did the same."
"When you're trying not laugh, you bite your cheek just like your mother did."
"I never did understand what your father saw in these gory movies."
And so on and so on.
Bruce didn't remember his parents, but he always felt he knew them.
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