My dad is a Marine. It's a central fact of his life, as much a part of describing him as saying he has black hair and hazel eyes. He taught me the Marine Corps hymn so early I have no memory of not knowing the lyrics and the tune. He taught me to count cadence before I could actually count and showed me how to do the Queen Anne salute with a stick as soon as I could hold one.
Marines are tough. I know this as surely as I know the sun rises on the halls of Montezuma and sets on the shores of Tripoli, as surely as I know the biscuits in the Army can kill you.
Yesterday Dad drove up just as I was leaving after coffee with Mom. I stopped and asked where he'd been.
"To the doctor," he said in a low, slow voice.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just needed her signature."
"On what?"
"An application for a handicapped parking permit."
The earth trembled on its axis. I did not know what to say that wouldn't bow his shoulders even more, would not drop his head a quarter-inch further. I concentrated on breathing. In and out. In and out.
"Cool. Can I ride with you?"
He laughed a little and rolled up the car window. I drove away quickly, before he could see the tears glistening in my eyes.
5 comments:
Oh, Jerri. The fact that he was "man enough" to do this speaks volumes. My dad was also a Marine and each time he had to ask for help was a major blow. I can say that, at the end of his life, caring for him and helping him was one of the greatest joys I have ever had. If only because he let me and his gratitude was immense.
I know you will find a way to let your dad know that, no matter what, he will always be your strong, capable father.
Love.
love
love
love
:)
Laughter and tears hold so much strength. So does love. Enfolding you in all three.
Ditto, Amber.
My daughter often teases that she wishes I would get a handicap sticker so we could park closer when I'm with her. I'm willing to wait til I'm actually handicapped!
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