My Dad died some years back. I reconnected with him yesterday… a touch across time.
No need to put on your spooky-head nor let icy spiders jiggle up your spine. I’d mark this as higher on a warm-happy spectrum than a cold-scary one.
Paintings, actually. We’ve been putting them up around the new house. There was a cluster of Dad’s work and one or two needed fixing. He used to back his paintings with old cardboard and masking tape. One in particular fell apart when I picked it up. Old stuff, old tape, and, previously unnoticed, two typed pages of history attached at the back of the frame.
Past history …
Dad’s words, typos and ink corrections covered the back. Family history and pic. Who needs and iPhone?
Craft-knife in hand I started to trim and secure everything.
And with the touch of the frame and contents …
… Present connection
The last hand to do this work was my Dad’s, maybe twenty-five or thirty years ago. And there, as I removed old tape and re-secured the backing we connected. Not spooky. No fear. We worked together.
I read his words and heard his voice, gazed at the painting and was there as he recalled the 1920s. No I’m not that old, but there I was. A poem came from our out-of-time collaboration.
I felt warm, happy, wistful and proud to know Dad. I remember his passing, I’m not sure he’s gone … go figure.
© Mac Logan