A letter son's for his dead father.
Dear Dad:
I am writing this to you, though you have been dead for
thirty years.
From your seat in the place beyond I hope you can see
these lines. I feel I must say some things to you, things I
didn't know when I was a boy in your house, and
things I was too stupid to say.
It's only now, after passing through the long, hard school of
years; only now, when my own hair is gray, that I
understand how you felt.
I must have been a bitter trial to you. I was such an ass. I
believed my own petty wisdom, and I know now how
ridiculous it was, compared to that calm, ripe,
wholesome wisdom of yours.
Most of all, I want to confess my worst sin to you. It was
the feeling I had that you "did not understand".
When I look back over it now, I know that you did
understand. You understood me better then I did myself.
Your wisdom flowed around mine like the ocean
around an island.
And how patient you were with me! How full of long
suffering and kindness.
And how pathetic, it now comes home to me, were your
efforts to get close to me, to win my confidence, to be my
pal!
I wouldn't let you. I couldn't. What was it held me aloof? I
don't know. But it was tragic - that wall that rises between
a boy and his father, and their frantic attempts
to see through it and climb over it.
I wish you were here now, across the table from me, so
that I could tell you how there's no wall anymore; I
understand you now, Dad, and, God! how I love you and wish
I could go back and be your boy again.
I know now how I could make you happy everyday. I know
how you felt. Well, it won't be long and I believe you'll be the first to take me by the hand
and help me up the further slope.
And I'll put in the first thousand slopes or so making you
realize that not one pang or yearning you spent on
me was wasted. It took a good many years for this
prodigal son -and all sons are in a measure prodigal- to come
to himself, but I've come, I see it all now.
I know that the richest, most priceless thing on earth, and
the thing least understood, is that mighty love and
tenderness and craving to help which a father feels
toward his boy. For I have a boy of my own.
And it is he that makes me want to go back to you, and get
down on my knees to you.
Up there somewhere in the Silence, hear me, Dad, and
believe me.
(Unknown)
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