Sons and Father – Hugo's Posts

Gunk

Some time ago I took the tip of a pen and over several minutes removed all this “gunk” that had collected into the grooves of my dad’s heavy police ring with the blue stone a top. After I cleaned it I took it over to my papa and showed off my proud work.

I thought he’d be happy.

He groaned heavily when he saw it but instead of admonishing me he took the time to tell me that the stuff I had removed was there to highlight the patters in the gold plus the jewel. That a patina and all the little nicks and scratches on the pieces was something to be proud off because it meant you and your ring had seen some adventure. He then put away the ring and since then I watched it from afar.

Then one day I got one of my own and while I put it on this morning I noticed many several imperfections on it and then on me.

To Tell the Truth

I called him over and put my hands at his shoulders. We locked eyes and I saw a well of emotion creeping up as his eyes started to tear up.

“Tell the truth….please tell me what happened.” After a brief paused he told me and a tear ran down his cheek. Was I angry? Yes…but that was transitory as it was an opportunity to teach my son about taking ownership of his own actions and trust that he could talk to me about what was going on his life.

We hugged and he’s now raking the entire back yard…he’s surprisingly okay with the punishment he was dealt.

Hands

On a quiet Saturday afternoon at the age of eight I happened to find myself sitting next to my father who was reading the day’s newspaper in peace.

My chores were finished, dinner was minutes away from being served, my sisters were away enjoying the Berenstein Bears and for a moment the house sat still.

I can’t recall studying him so intently ever before but at this one opportunity I took time to make a mental photograph of my father as a man.

For a few uninterrupted minutes I looked him over.

His mustache was thick and plentifull and each manicured bristle bore a brown sheen that in years later would fade and turn uniformly gray. His gaze was focused and his brown eyes darted back and forth with purpose as he scanned the headlines. Occasionally he sighed and I found it odd how similar his chest heaved in response to no-matter what was on the page.

His profile was stern. Like the clean lines of a hood ornament on a classic car who cut through the incoming wind with grace. His upper body strong after years of hard work in a variety of jobs and thorough physical conditioning during his time in the Mexican police force.

Some impulse cause me to dart out my hand and take his. I needed to see it in contrast to mine, take note of its weight and feel the roughness of his work-man fingers.

For less than a minute I had my father’s hand in mine and then he gruffly pulled it back to turn the page.

—

My son sits at my side some times.

He enjoys placing my hands on his and brags that one day he’ll be taller than I.

I afford him the time he needs.

It is time I cherish too.