My Hero

I was three years old when I met my father. I had seen photos of him that mother put into frames throughout the house. She placed them everywhere so I would become familiar with this handsome Marine who we called "Daddy". Every morning we would put juicy kisses on his image. New photos arrived from time to time displaying a bar or medal that was not there before. My mother would proudly point out these accomplishments but each new photo seemed more serious than the last. Red lipstick kisses covered the ones where smiles no longer existed. Mother said each new photo was a promise that soon, very soon, our daddy would come home.

We lived with my grandparents and a daily outing to a nearby park was my grand mothers fondest duty. She would sit on the bench knitting scarves and sox while exchanging news of the troops. One afternoon her knitting bag was left behind and conversations around the park were much more joyful. People were laughing and giving eachother big hugs and kisses. Every now and then someone would give me an airplane ride.

One day extra care was given to my curls and I was allowed to wear my church clothes to the park. When we came home, I saw my mother sitting on a mans lap and they were kissing. This kiss was not like the ones she gave to me or my grandfather. This was a very long kiss. I began to fear that my mother could not breathe. "Stop kissing my mother!", I yelled. I stood fists clenched, ready to battle this man who wanted to take my mothers breath away.

My mother said, "Diane, this is your father". A tall uniformed man swept me into his arms. He held me as if he would never let me go. He showered me with kisses. He was crying and his eyes held secrets we would never know ... his smile was sad. I kicked and punched him until he let me go. I ran from him and hid under my grandmothers apron.

I don't remember how long it took to win me over. I do remember for many years after that day I would hold one of those photos next to his face while he was sleeping. I would wonder if a cruel trick had been played on us. His face was similar but not exact. Could the handsome, trusting, joyful young man in those photos be lost somewhere?

That was over sixty years ago. I am no longer a child and I have learned that life can take away the sparkle of ones spirit. My father sacrificed his sparkle during those three years of war but he managed, somehow, to hold on to the goodness in his heart. He will always be my hero.