Reflections of mychildhood are with me every day

They creep within my consciousstate and forever want to stay



My mother was a kind,gentle woman with a smile that graced each day. She had a sparkle in hereyes that announced her sincerity. Everything about her was soft andpleasant. Her skin was like pink velvet, her hair like yellow silk. Whenshe kissed me good night her lips were as two flower petals greeting theApril sun. So often did I perch upon her lap and nestle contentedly inthe softness of her flesh, wishing that the moment would never pass. Herheart, like gold, was precious, soft, and pure.

My father was aquiet man. He seldom spoke except in reply. He was very respected in thecommunity for his honesty and integrity. We lived on a farm and heworked long, hard hours. He would leave in the morning darkness and comehome with it at his heels. He seldom spoke to me with other than hiseyes. Yet, I somehow know he loved me. There was, I guess, no need forwords.

One day in late September, my father came home with thesun still in the sky. With slow hesitant steps he approached me as Ilaid upon the hardness of the earth cushioned by its soft green carpet.The sun danced upon my face and the birds sang to me of a contentmentonly found in the innocence of youth. He looked down at me as if he hadnever seen me before. Suddenly, with measured strength, he bent andlifted me to his shoulder. I held my head motionless against him. Icould hear the beating within his chest like distant drums pounding outa secret message. I wrapped my hand around his thick arm and marveled atits firmness. His hands were bruised, cut, and stained with life'slabor, very unlike my mother's. I felt the warmth of his rough, coarsecheek pressed closely next to mine. A small bead of moisture trickledfrom his eye and fell upon my nose. I caught it with my hand and withuncertainty placed it to the wind. Without a word, my father slowly putme down, turned, and left me standing there. I watched in puzzlement asinstantly the present turned into the past.

I treasure nochildhood memory more. My father never again held me. I was never tofeel again the softness in his strength. But, that brief moment ofaffection will stay with me forever. The softness of my mother, herwords of love and pride shall eternally be within my heart. But, no lovecould be more intense than the love I felt surge from my father's heartthat day. His body hardened by toil, softened for a brief interlude,then tensed and carried on with life.

The following September, asthe corn stood strong and tall, my father was found lifeless upon therich soil that had brought him to his death. The tassels bent athalf-mast as they carried him from his battlefield never more to return.His work was done.

If I had but one wish, it would be that I hadcaught my father's teardrop and held it close to my heart for eternity.