Echoes of My Father
A dad offers praise and support, realizing that over time his children, no matter their age, will trust and respect him enough to seek him out when yet another of life's startling, unexpected crises lifts its head and screams at their fragile emotions.
Dads dedicate themselves to being a part of their children's lives, even if or when they yell from the other side of a slammed bedroom door, "You don't understand, and you never will " only to call, what feels like a few short years later, and ask, "Dad, can we meet for coffee? There are some things going on that I'd like to share with you, get your thoughts."
There are seldom thank-you notes attached to the refrigerator door, or hand-printed Post-its left in the inside pocket of suit jackets or stuck to the bathroom mirror or hidden inside an empty shoe or hanging from the rearview mirror of the car announcing their gratitude for being the best unsung hero in their lives, but that doesn't minimize their continued love for a man who, as they mature, they come to realize is a valuable blessing to their home--a man who, despite the physical distance between them, will never once stop believing in their successful future.
My dad, Richard S. Gonzales, was this man.
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