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He Was My Father from the Writing Collection of Michael Patrick Cahill, USA

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Michael Patrick Cahill, USA

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He Was My Father

HE WAS MY FATHER
By mpc


“There is nothing to fear in this storm son. It is only thunder. It is only lightning. It is nothing but water. Stand with me now and we will laugh at the pathetic onslaught that affects us not! Behold your power my son. You walk amidst all of this unscathed. You are more than this!”
That is my most endearing memory of my father. I will never forget that early A.M. confrontation. I was but three years old and afraid of the cacophony surrounding me. Rumbling explosions of thunder. Bolts of light mortally wounding the cool darkness. And me all alone in my little bed shivering though warm and secure within my blankets. Lord, how I wished for mommy at that moment cradling me and protecting me from that which I did not understand. But, it was daddy scooping my half asleep self up from the unaware comfort. It was daddy that pranced boldly through the door and into the middle of Armageddon and mocked it as though it were the dullest child he had ever met. In that moment I became what I am. I learned the lesson without intellect or comprehension. We danced and shouted and mocked that which we feared and defeated the boastful lie of its power. I became forever his son.
There was a point much later in life when all the little small deceits began to fade one at a time as in peeling an onion to excuse tears. My tender side would slip out in a sigh which I quickly covered up with a manly cough. And as though finally given a safe egress his would sneak out as well. I remember him finding my notebook of poetry and the terror of seeing him read my unedited vulnerable self. “This is really good son. I didn’t know you had it in you.” With that he handed me his notebook worn and unopened or tended to in many years. It was a trove of revelations and insights into life. The truth having been revealed removed any need to explain our small deceits over the years. “I guess I’ll have to resume writing son.” He said. “I don’t want to lag behind.” And over the years we got to know each other in a way that few men allow. We reached a point where we could cry over “The Color Purple” and then laugh at our own softness of heart, learning of the great power of honesty and revelation. Indeed, he never seemed larger then when his feelings trickled down his cheek. To the outside world he as do I presented ourselves as being without fear. “It is fear son that cowards prey upon. They smell it and crave it as sustenance to keep the falseness of their persona alive. Most people are bluffing son. The ones that aren’t, you needn’t fear.”
I remember in great detail the very last time I saw my father. He had been ill for some time both physically and mentally. This man that had been larger than life to me for over fifty years suddenly became small and frail. His sharp mind and keen wit had dulled like a butcher’s favorite knife. There was little left to sharpen. Still somewhere in his mostly vacant eyes was an occasional glint to remind me of what he once was. We were in the courtyard of the convalescent hospital he lived in. I laugh here as I am made aware that even now I am reluctant to call it a rest home. Some guilt I suppose escapes the salve of rationalization. As we sat together in silent bond it began to rain. As a thirsty flower in a desert light filled his eyes. Amidst the frantic coaxings of nurses and interns we one more time howled and berated the sudden deluge. He died that evening having worn out in great style everything the good Lord had given him.
He left no will. Indeed there was nothing left to bequeath really. There was some furniture and books and photographs. These were already in my possession. He left no instructions as to where to spread his ashes. But, I hear the distant sound of thunder off in the distance. It is time to say goodbye.

-the end-

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Here are the previous Messages left about this writing:
FromComment about document or authorResponse CountryResponse Added
Michael CahillSusanne Rowell Amazing! Five stars from me! Germany 12/4/2013 8:45:27 AM USA12/6/2013 10:45:00 PM
Susanne RowellAmazing! Five stars from me!Germany12/4/2013 8:45:27 AM
Bob Macchiaa wonderful story, deserved recognition and award....great writing...I remember my father as well. He was a similar person and died the same way, frail and suffering. God rest his soul and your fathers as well.USA11/26/2011 4:43:49 PM
Congrats, deeply moving. 11/2/2011 7:14:02 AM
Hina FirdoseIt's simply beautiful, Mike!! It's those moments u spent together with your father, the bonding n the lessons u learnt from him that will be of use to u somewhere in very important times of your life where no wealth wud b of use...this is the wealth he's bequeathed for u...treasure it forever!!! Wonderful father-son bonding, n wonderful tribute!! Congrats for the win!! India11/1/2011 11:36:35 AM
thelmaMPC A very moving and beautiful story of love between father and son, touched me deeply, He left no instructions as to where to spread his ashes. . “There is nothing to fear in this storm son. It is only thunder. It is only lightning. It is nothing but water. Stand with me now and we will laugh at the pathetic onslaught that affects us not! Behold your power my son. You walk amidst all of this unscathed. You are more than this\He left no instructions as to where to spread his ashes. Congratulations on your first place in the competition. But, I hear the distant sound of thunder off in the distance. It is time to say goodbye. 10/31/2011 2:10:20 AM
Marcia SchechingerMichael oh my goodness, I have goosebumps from this beautiful story of love between father and son. With impeccable language skills and heart warming devotion I have to smile thinking the next time there is a rain storm I, too, will turn the music up and "dance". In your father's memory, I thank for this great story and advice. Congratulations on winning 1st place in the September 2011 writing category on Voicesnet. USA10/30/2011 9:42:35 PM
JJ, VoicesNet.comCongrats!USA10/30/2011 6:55:10 PM
A.K. AshicLovely story about your dad. It touches my heart as it stirs fond memories of my own dad. I think your dad has bestowed a great gift upon you, the gift of creativity and originality. I.H.R. A.K.AshicCanada9/5/2011 9:48:03 PM
 

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