My Father

One of the earliest recollections that I have of my father is him bringing me to work. He would take a late break at two-thirty to pick me up from school. Then, instead of bringing me home, he would bring me to work. He was a sales associate then, at a jewelry store in La Jolla. I would sit in the back, do my homework, and make silver bows of various sizes on the bow machine. Every now and again, my father would come to the back and make sure that I was okay.

I always remember my father working. He would leave early and come back late. He went to Japan to work, while my mother and myself stayed in the states. We ate out a lot during that time, since my father normally did the cooking. (My mother baked, thank you very much.) Every week, we’d get postcards addressed to the both of us. I would place these on the back of the door to my bedroom and see them every day before I went to school. I always kept the writing side up.

Twenty years later–I am separated from him by three thousand miles.

I have seen older pictures of my father and me. There is one taken in the Philippines where he is holding me in his arms. I must be ten months old. I recognize my father–the only difference between the way he looks now is the addition of a salt and pepper beard.

I see myself in that picture as well–but not the visage of the child. I see myself in my father. I know that he and I are very much alike, more so sometimes than I would like to admit–but we are.

And I like it.

I like being my father’s son.