Ya. That's My Dad

He arrived like a spring shower in the roaring '20's, formed the impressions of his mind and soul in the desperation of the Great Depression, crossed the thorny threshold of transition from teenager to manhood at the backdoor of World War II's darkness, he spent nearly 30 days on wild, stormy waves crossing the ocean wide trying to return alive, to where at long last he found the sweet sunshine of home in the heart of a simple American girl. After he passed she told stories, rather matter-of-factly, of how for months after the War he'd awake nights in a cold sweat unable to sleep unable to speak of his nightmares, nobody knew, except her, nobody understood, except for those, who like him, had been there. Without realizing it he spent the next 40-some years absolving his heart in the cleansing toil of hard work providing for those he loved more than himself, and, in the baptismal waters of child-rearing, that steadily washes selfish sins away as nothing else can. Is it silly to believe that we are all essentially redeemed from the dark in our lives by the glorious sunshine of our few best moments? For why else does hope exist? So now when someone looks at the picture of him I keep proudly in my den, the one where he is older sitting on the International tractor he restored, smiling, and they say, 'Is that your dad? He looks like a real good guy.' I say, with a thankful heart, 'Ya. That's my dad.'