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Remembering My Father

June 19th, 2011 by Magdalena Tabor

Many years have passed since I lost my father but his presence is still felt in my life. You might refer to my poem entitled, ” Conversations With My Father” dated 5/11. He lies buried in a lovely rural cemetary that hugs the side of a mountain in upstate NY. The same mountain where he loved to spend his weekends in a tiny house. The house is mine now, where my husband and I often spend our weekends whenever we can. I regret that the two men I have loved most in my life have never had the chance to meet and I know the picture I try to portray of my father will never truly be recognized.
He was a man who adored his daughter, like most father/daughter relationships, and my earliest recollections of the two us us begin on Sunday mornings with trips to the carousel. He always carried a pint sized version of my favorite candy bar in his pocket that he’d present on our walk from the parking lot to the carousel through the woods. This scene was repeated over and over until I guess I got too big for that sort of thing. One day I learned that the hundred year old carousel had burned to the ground but that they planned to build another in its place. I was reminded that although we try, we can never truly replace that which is lost. And so it is with fathers.
My father always carried a picture of his mother in his wallet. She died when he was just six years old. I would always ask him to show it to me and he always willingly obliged. I would stare at the lovely young woman in Victorian dress and marvel at her beauty. After numerous requests to view the treasured photo, one day he removed it from its plastic sleeve and handed it to me. I could scarcely accept. I knew how much it meant to him. I purchased a beautiful antique frame for her where she remains to this day, cherishing his most prized possession as he had cherished her.
He always told me never to leave the house without money – “Aways carry a $20.00 bill in your wallet – you never know when you’ll need it”. When my father died, my mother wanted to give me something to remember him by – she gave me the wallet. In it are old pictures of us as youngsters, an old hunting license, his drivers license, by now long since expired. In a secret compartment is a $50.00 bill. I borrowed it once and replaced it as soon as I could. It’s become a ritual now and again when I’m short of cash. It’s my way of saying “Thanks, Pop”. You always promised to take care of me.

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2 Responses to “Remembering My Father”

  1. Alexander1 Says:

    moving & touching blog. my dad is still with me, thnak god.

  2. magdalena Says:

    I miss mine more than words can say.

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