My Father's Pictures

Prompt assignment for 4/7/2010.  A Memory Of Time Spent With My Father.







My Father's Pictures



by Bikerider





Many years ago during a visit with my father, who had recently been diagnosed with Cancer, he displayed raw emotions I didn’t know he had.  We sat in his third floor apartment, the windows open allowing street noise into the room, when he brought out a shoe box. Seeing him cradle the box carefully, I knew it had importance to him.  When he lifted the lid I could see a mound of photographs, some of them banded into small bundles, others just a single picture.  They were black and white and some were faded telling me they were old.  As my father lifted a scallop edged picture he looked at me with sorrowful eyes, and with a shaking hand he gave me the picture. 

“Your grandmother, Emma, she is my mother.”  His eyes were turning red and his voice wavered but I knew that he wanted to do this.  I had never met my grandmother, I’d never even seen a picture of her.  I had never seen any of these photographs before.  I grew up in a broken home and spent little time with my father until I was a young adult. 

“She’s pretty dad.  I can see where you got your good looks” I said while holding the photograph and hoping to lighten the heavy mood that had crept into the small room.  My father ignored my comment and continued to sift through the collection in the shoe box, finding the picture he was looking for he raised it close to his eyes and studied it.  When he handed it to me I noticed his eyes were beginning to fill with tears.  He reached across to me and his too thin fingers held an official looking photograph. 

“This is your grandfather, his Passport picture from 1929.  He spoke his name and his voice was laced with anger.

“Dad, was there something wrong?  I asked, concerned.

“He was a hard man.  He never cared for me I don’t think. But I don’t think he cared for anyone.”  Again, there was the anger, maybe even hatred. 

“I’m sure you’re wrong dad.  No one can be that bad.”  My father was becoming upset and I hoped to end the conversation.  “Maybe we should put all this away for another time.”  I said.

“There may not be another time, we both know that.”  He said that with a hint of pleading.  He wanted to walk this path of nostalgia. 

“Sure dad, no problem, I’d like to see the pictures.”  I reassured him.  I watched his fingers work their way into layers of pictures, layers of years I thought.  He pulled out several pictures and after looking at them he placed them back in the box gingerly.  These pictures were very important to him and I knew that someday I would look at all of them, but I would sit by myself when I did. A lonely feeling swept over me like a hot breeze.  My father took out some pictures that put a smile on his face.  I could see the happy memories playing in his eyes like a movie.  He showed me the pictures, some were dog eared, some were badly faded but I saw a small boy in shorts, misty mountains in the background.  There was a girl of maybe ten with curly hair who wore a white dress and white shoes that matched the ribbon in her hair, a church with an open door in the background, a clergyman standing next to her.  I took my time looking at the pictures.  I knew the one’s he wanted me to see were the one’s that were important to him. 

“That is my brother Gino and my sister Emma.  He died when he was twenty-one, my sister is still alive.  “His smile was still in place but beginning to waver.  “Maybe one day you will visit her.”  I could hear the hope in his voice.  My father gently dug his fingers through the many years and many memories contained in the shoebox.  I could tell he found another significant picture.  He took a long look at a picture as he held it up to his weakening eyes.  His hand began to shake more than usual and I could see his chin begin to stammer.  Tears rolled down his cheek, spotting his pants.  I knew he held an important memory in his trembling hands.  The tears told me it wasn’t a happy memory.

“This is the house where we all lived, all five of us.  Life was hard in that little village but we were all together.”  He slowly handed the picture to me, he seemed reluctant to let go.  The house was old, made of rough rock.  A small patch of dirt spread in front to a rock wall.  It was apparent the family that lived there was poor.  At the end of the rock wall were three rock steps that ended at the stone street.  I asked him if the house was still there. 

“Your Aunt Emma told me it is.  After I left I never went back.” 

“Maybe one day I’ll see it.”  I told him.

“I hope you do, living there was the happiest days of my life.” He was opening crying now.  I took the shoe box from him and helped him into bed.  His eyes were red and wet.  He fell asleep quickly, his breathing shallow.  My father died a short time later and I took the shoe box and put it away for safe keeping.  I knew the treasures it held. 





I did go to Italy and visited the humble house in the photograph that contains my father’s happy memories. The house is much the same as it was in the photograph.  The village is picturesque. Jagged mountains surround the village in an embrace. The aroma of apple blossoms from  nearby orchards filled my senses as I walked the stone streets my father played on as a child, and walked as an adult.  I stood on the three stone steps and took a long emotional look at the house in memory of my father.  My aunt, the little girl who wore a white dress and had a ribbon in her curly hair,  shared the same reverence for those pictures that my father did.  I left them with her and returned home knowing it was my turn to gather a treasure for someone I would never know. 

WC/991