Yesterday, waiting for the BART, I started observing a father and his son. The son was around eight years old- plump with spiky oriental hair and rosy cheeks. He seemed very happy with the world, and he was playing a mild game of hide and seek with his father and asking him a hundred questions a minute.
Their train came, and the father didn’t seem to know where it would stop, and by the time he realized where, the train was already moving again. He made a valiant attempt to run towards it, but then the train went away, and he and his son got onto the next train, which was ours as well.
I kept hearing the son’s happy chatter and continued observing the pair. The father- where had I seen him before? He looked quite old to have a son as young as his, and he looked tired- as though he worked very hard. But he also had a quiet dignity. He took off his thick glasses and squinted at the fine print of the ticket in his hand. And he answered all his son’s questions, and even poked him to look out and see new things, and told him little stories.
You all know where this story is going; naturally I realized that the gentleman resembled my departed father, and I also realized that good fathers come in all shapes, sizes, and ages.
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