His Father
His Father.
I sat on a stone with my feet up on the low tide someone had told me
that everything is possible if you absolutely believe and I was trying to
walk on water. I concentrated mightily and sweat broke out. Put my feet
down as I got up and sank to my knees into the sea. So it wasn´t possible
and I was gullible believing what adults said; an, anyway it, isn´t much
fun to walk on big waves in a storm. Last night I had been with the gang
stealing apples in the garden of a rich man, mainly because he got angry,
when he came running calling us whore children of the Nazi occupation.
We laughed because we´re born before the war…except a little boy who
was born in 1941, we just him as a look out and he looked down and said
nothing. He had no father we knew and we gave him extra apples because
his pockets were small. I knew how he felt I had a father but he was always
absent, sometimes I saw him in the street and on the bus and sometimes
I stood outside the factory where he worked and waited for him to come
out, then I followed him to his home at a safe distant, saw him kissing his
new wife and talking to his children. I never told my mother and now that
I´m old I think it might not have been my father, but just picked this man
because he looked father-like. The little boy whose father was an enemy
soldier and I who tried to walk on water, must accept that some dreams are
impossible, and get on with the business of growing up.
Copyright © Jan Oskar Hansen | Year Posted 2013
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