A very old woman cups her hand and uses it to stroke each cheek of her grown children. Through her touch she shows the love in her heart for them. She feels the tingle of their presence, and they her’s. It gently expresses how glad she is that they’ve become such good people. She feels their warmth, their life, and their vitality. But most of all she does it to capture a sense memory knowing they will be leaving for their far away homes. Her touch is something physical that she can remember afterwards. Something she can recall in the following days. … Although I touch their images on the LCD screen trying futilely to do the same, feel the same, sense the same, yet the screen feels flat and cool, not warm and alive. And I cannot stop. I have to glide my finger tips over their images, their faces. As I do I say “I love you”, and “I miss you so”.
Dad,
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t remember your hugs or your proud words for my accomplishments.
Love you,
Matthew
Comment by Matthew — September 8, 2008 @ 2:02 am
Dad,
The memories I have of you will forever be with me. For example, when I make my LONG telephone calls, mostly about nothing, you are always there to lend an ear and be there if I need you. That committment to us, your children, can’t be put into word how lucky I am to have you as my father.
I love you,
Katie
Comment by katie — September 8, 2008 @ 2:20 pm
One word: Airstream.
Comment by Justin — September 10, 2008 @ 4:38 am