Ever since, Father’s Day hasn’t been one of the more outstanding celebratory days. It isn’t because I can’t remember a lot of positive things about my dad, it’s more about a hole that I can’t seem to measure and which never really fills up.
Cancer introduced itself to my dad back in the mid sixties and then proceeded to stalk him for almost two decades before cutting him down at the age of 48.
So anyway, being in a melancholy mood, I thought I’d take a stab at writing a piece that might fit into the inspirational genre.
Knuckle-prints in the Sand
One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with Monkey-Cam. Many scenes from our hiking adventures flashed across my memory.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was only one.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I really could have used a friend, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to Monkey-Cam,
“Monkey-Cam, you promised you’d always be my friend and that we’d be an inseparable team of narrative image photographers. But I have noticed that during our most challenging adventures there has only been one set of footprints. What’s up with that?”
Monkey-Cam replied in his inimitable pantomime gestural language, “Scott, those times when you only see one set of footprints, well, those are the times we rented a camel. Remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “I forgot.”
Approaching the river