For I am my Father’s Son

Of all the memories I  have of my childhood, one repeated incident stands out. Its timing changes, and its people change, but 3 elements are constant: Me, my dad, and a small gesture my dad makes every single time, a certain smile he gets.One such incident took place at the doctor’s office. I was around 8 or 9, we were waiting our turn. My dad was going through some magazine and I was sitting next to him peeking at the pictures trying to pass the time. Some guy was sitting across the room and he started a conversation with my dad, you know, the usual questions about why and how and whatnot. But one specific question caught my attention, and my dad’s response to it. The guy asks: “Your son?” My dad simply looks at me and smiles, and I’m thinking, what kind of  a question is that? Of course I’m his son!

Another one of those incidents took place at the supermarket. My dad had the trolley and I was scouting ahead for different corn flakes boxes; I like to mix flavors. A lady walks up to my dad and starts asking him questions about stuff. I’ll be damned if I can remember. I get 2 packs and put them in the trolley. The lady asks my dad: “Your son?” My dad looks at me and smiles. Again, I’m thinking, what kind of question is that?! Whose son would I be?

Years pass and these incidents kept growing in numbers and variety, and always, 3 elements remained constant. They happen everywhere: When we’re shopping for shoes, clothes, when we’re at the garage, gas stations, hospitals, playgrounds, etc. Different people, all the time, all have the same rhetorical question: “Your son?” and my dad always answers the same way: He looks at me and smiles.It took me all these years and all these events to finally understand this simple gesture, this specific smile. And nowadays when we’re out, at any of these random places, and when any of these random people asks my dad: “Your son?” I look at my dad and smile, for I am my father’s son.

Contributed by Maverick