Memories.

Lately I have been taken on a journey through history. I have been acquainted with photos from the past about my family, specifically, my Dad. Through the wonder and beauty of Facebook, I have had the opportunity for my family members to post pictures from their upbringing that includes many photos of my dad when he was my age and younger, much younger.

Now, I have seen some pics previous to this immersion of photos, but I never really noticed how much I look like my father. When my dad was alive, I didn't really see how the two of us looked alike. I didn't. Even today, when I see him at the time he was alive and the years leading up to it, I didn't see how I resembled him at all.

However, looking back, I can see it. I can see my dad, and I can see how I looked just like him when he was a teenager.

My father has been dead almost 20 years. He past away Aug 19th, 1992. It took me a long long time to move on from his passing and smile when thinking about him. Near the end of his life, he and I did not have the best relationship and I was very angry at him. When I learned of his illness, I was forced to put aside my anger towards him and focus on spending as much time with him as possible. I have a lot of memories of my father, some good, some not so good.

I loved my father, and I know he loved me, but at the same time I felt that I was never good enough for him. That nothing I did was ever good enough for him. Bare in mind this is what I felt then, not now. He was a tough man, stubborn, and set in his ways. He was quick tempered, but never mean. I was just your typical teenager that didn't like to be told what he could or couldn't do by a man that wasn't always around.

I was 16 years old when he died, and I feel like I missed out on so many great things and opportunities finishing high school and college and entering adulthood. I miss my dad even to this day, but I don't resent him, nor do I feel anger towards him anymore. I am in a better place, and accept him for who he was and know that despite his faults, he was a good man who loved me and appreciated me.

My memories of my father extend beyond the last three months of his life where the sickness ate at his memories and body. I remember the man that taught me to shave, drive, gave me my first beer, and thensome. He was a good man, and I am thankful for the memories that I have of him.

Family, keep the pics of him coming. I want to get to know him all over again.

Until next time
P