My Father's Tears
My dad was always the strong
silent type. Growing up, I
rarely saw him angry, or
even raise his voice in debate.
He was often miserable
with allergies, but didn't take it
out on us. He never
told me he loved me, that just was not
his way. This was
difficult for me growing up. I remember
one time I cried and cried.
Finally my mother reached out
and comforted me.
Then my father said "the
words."
When you have to put up a fuss
to hear someone say "I love you,"
it makes the words feel
empty and of little consolation.
Yet deeply buried and hidden
inside me was the knowledge
that he loved me.
Even though he was hard to get
to know, I remember finding the
key to opening him up a little.
Only when working next to him,
would he talk more freely.
Through all these growing up years,
I never saw him cry.
Years later, my first son,
his first grandson was born. He was
born in the dark, cold, early
morning hours of a winter blizzard.
Still exhausted and scared,
I called my parents. With the storm
still raging, they could only
"try to make it" the next day. My
husband and I were both students
and very poor. We had no
means to pay the hospital, so
I had a very limited stay.
Exhausted and numb from the emotional
waves of ecstasy and
despair, I longed to stay longer.
Late in the afternoon of the
next day, my roommate left for a
walk and snack. I
had the sleeping baby with me. I tried to sleep,
but could not. I startled
at the sound of light knocking. The nurse
peeked in.
"I know it isn't visiting hours,"
she "but, this is a special visitor,"
then she disappeared.
There was my dad, standing
in the doorway and looking terribly
out of place. He had a
blue carnation in a small white vase tied
with a blue ribbon. I guessed
he picked it up at the hospital gift
shop. He was still in his
dirty old work coat. The dirt on his hands
and face told me he came straight
from work. He looked at me
sheepishly as he crept a little
way into the room. My eyes met his.
I saw a tear in his eye.
It welled up, and gently rolled down his
cheek. And then another,
and another. I never saw my father cry before;
the entire room was silent ,
it was overwhelming.
"See your grandson?" I blurted
out trying to hide my own feeling of
awkwardness. But
it was useless. Tears glazed over my eyes as well.
Then we were both in tears, as
he gingerly made his way closer and
handed me the carnation.
He slowly stretched to peek at the baby -
keeping his distance.
He stayed only briefly. Then
he was gone. Although few words were
spoken that visit, it touched
me deeply. I knew beyond any doubt
that my father loved me,
and was proud of me. Those tears
will forever be in my heart.
by Robin Clifton
 
 
 
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