John Kitsco

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My sister reminded me that on January 9,2010 it was five
years ago that our Dad passed on.

Several months after Dad died I stood at his grave, just
the wind and I, and reflected. And cried. Was I my fathers
son? Sorry Dad, you hoped I would become a priest. Later
you hoped I would be a lawyer. Sorry Dad. Best I could do
was a poet. A photographer.

I remember younger years and how dapper Dad would look.
Smart hat and big cigar. Off to the races. Three piece suit.
Off to the hat shop. Our Dad made, blocked and sold hats.
Yes, a haberdasher. A hat maker for some fifty plus years.
He was a good Dad. A good husband. Sometimes a gambler.
Liked a drink sometimes. Put on a suit and took the family
to church on Sunday. We fished together, played ball, walked
by the railway yard, planted the garden.

Then time moved forward and a young smart ass teen, that
would be me. And later an eye for the gals. Like most young
men. I guess in many respects I was learning about life. Dad
was busy working. Then there was this poet leaving the
Canadian prairies and off to the U.S.  There was this young
man with longer hair who loved books and motorcycles.
I was learning about life, drifting from Dad. And time caught
up with us all. We grew up.

We cannot bring back the past, open the precious gates to
yesterday or change our lives. We can only grow and hopefully
learn. Call it destiny. Call it growing pains - ah those sweet
refrains of growing pains - Call it life. Am I my fathers son?

The wind swept through my hair as I stood quietly by the grave.
Memories of the garden. Memories of us four kids and Mom
and Dad around the table. Dad in his army uniform. Dad out
fishing. And now Dad at rest. The fathers son is crying.

Till we meet again Dad. I love you. I know us four kids love
you. I know Mom loves you. And we miss you.

And was that the wind speaking. Did I hear a voice in the
wind say yes ..you are your fathers son....?