My Dad

Is getting old.
Constantly tired.
Took a holiday photo of him yesterday.
When I zoomed in he looked like he was just about holding on. A lump blocked my throat when I saw how tired and aged he looked.

When I was born, my dad was so excited running down the stairs to see me that he slipped and broke his coccyx bone.

Now if he sits too long it hurts him.
“It’s cause of you,” he tells me, eyes laughing.

I was late at the Moroccan baths today with one of the girls.
He walked all the way there to make sure we were OK.

He is so patient with everybody. And works so hard to ensure his kids have a good education and don’t take out loans. That is no easy feat you know. He never has a holiday, even when it is his holiday. He takes on numerous other translating jobs and is up so late, waking up before everybody else to finish his work.
Nobody cares.

All my memories of him as a child involve him giving us his time, playing with us, taking us to parks, telling us stories. Those were the best memories.

Now he listens to us when we talk. He shows his care through his actions.

My dad is the kindest person I have ever known. All the children everywhere love him to bits. He plays with them and makes them giggle and in return they pile their sticky kisses on him and wrap their chubby arms around his neck and climb all over him and I remember I used to do that when I was a wee tot.

I worry about him. So much. And I don’t think I could ever be a good enough daughter to him; all the sacrifices he has made and all the hours he puts in to make sure our life is not as hard as his was.

Hey, you know what?
We all have our own special memories of our fathers/parents. Our own little things that make them special to us.
What makes your father special to you?