Sitting and thinking

So perhaps at that moment in time there was a special connection between my father and I. As we both sat, he on the homeward bound bus, and me on the edge of the bunk-bed in my room. Together, in thoughtful unison. Despite the ever reducing distance between us.  A real connection between the two. A ‘mental bond’ of sorts between father, and the son. As we sat thinking about the same thing, sort of, he, of what form the punishment would take and me of what form of punishment I would receive. But regardless, it would have been a moment that was special. A very rare occurrence. Something that I’m sure, given his regular utterance of, “are you really one of mine?’, was not something that occurred between us with any regularity.

I’m pretty sure I was one of his, but I suppose that was between my mother and he. People would say I had my ‘mothers eyes’ (I would swear she still has them), and only now, as I age, I do often notice the definite similarities to my father’s features appearing on my visage and physical form. Occasionally it causes a slight shudder as I catch a partial glimpse in a reflection or the odd unexpected connection on seeing a photograph. Yes, I can definitely confirm I am my father’s son. Mind you, I’m sure like many questions he asked me then, this was also rhetorical.

He may be gone now, and I may have survived the particular punishment he dispensed (again) but his presence is definitely there. It has certainly tempered how I perceive punishment and also how I respect authority. Good Authority. I’ll still go toe to toe with poor leadership, bad management and disrespectful behaviour, often at personal loss to myself, but I will never willingly stand by and allow bullies to control others, cruelty to hurt others, nor exploitation to occur if I can assist in stopping it. A person must never have power over another and misuse it. My father, in his own way, taught me that.

However this wasn’t then. Those lessons came later with reflection. We were young and my younger brother was on his way to hospital, his head (later identified as his scalp only) split open by the edge of a wooden stilt (currently lying in the grass in the park, forgotten in our rush to render aid), thrown by me, to free a trapped kite. The incident had occurred because of my good intentions, to spread the joy for us all wanting to fly the kite. The incident had ended with one down (‘Medic!’), several children shocked, no doubt one or two slightly traumatised and all worried about inclusion in the blame game, and myself, sitting in my room waiting for the axe to fall again.

(continued tomorrow)