My Father's Face
by Harry Buschman
Before turning in last night I looked in my
mirror. I'm so used to seeing the lines etched in this time worn face of mine
that I've ignored the face itself. The recognition came at the speed of light
and I was lucky to catch it at all.
It wasn't my face I saw in the mirror, it was my father's face. So much like
mine I almost missed the resemblance. Although he's been gone now more than
a generation it was like seeing him again.
While we lived in the same house we never resembled
each other -- no one
looking at us would ever consider we were father and son. But now that death
has arrested his aging and brought me abreast of him you can't tell us apart.
We're like two peas in a pod.
My father and I were not alike years ago, but I've grown to be a lot like him
and I catch myself thinking the way he did, complaining the way he did, and
yes, even living the way he did after my mother passed away. He was a widower
too and the weariness of being without my mother was more than he could bear.
He might not have been as lonely if I gave him a little more of myself, but
a man only has so much to give, and the little he has he gives to his wife and
children .... and himself. So my father languished. He grieved, and he thought
about the good old days for the four months he lived after my mother died, and
now I see myself in the mirror looking the way he did with only myself for company.
Another restless night; restless because in spite of the progress I've made
in the quality of my life, the fact remains I've become my own father. You see
.... there's no difference in our ages now. I'm as old as he got to be and it
startles me to think I may be the very same man. In spite of the progress and
the explosion of information that I've been privileged to enjoy, I've grown
to be just like him. He never answered the phone when it rang. No one dropped
in to pass the time of day with him. He never opened a letter, letters were
bad news, no one wrote to tell of good news.
We grow, don't we? I hope we grow to the extent that we can cope with the changes
in life as it grows more complex. But are we any better off than we used to
be, or is it just a fresh dust jacket on a book that hasn't changed?
This morning I shaved with an electric razor, (something he never did) ....
I anointed myself with oil after showering with a non allergenic and colorless
soap. I washed what's left of my hair with a substance that's guaranteed to
make it healthier and fluffier. Then I took another look.
There he was; a little better groomed perhaps, but still looking back at me as though to say, "You're not gettin' off that easy, son -- the old Chevy ain't gonna run any better just because you went and polished it." But, like so much of the advice he gave me as a child, it proved wrong. The old Chevy, with all its dings and scratches got through the day more gracefully than he thought it would. It seemed to run smoother too -- it usually does when he's riding with me.
Copyright Harry Buschman 1995
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