The Heart of my Father

I can hear his heartbeat. Low, loud, and strong. It thumps to a rhythm of it's very own and then stops, only for a second, then returns itself to it's sounds of strength. Over the years I come to learn that this is normal. This is the sound of His heart.

The bedspread is pink. Very pink. And shiny. It wasn't until this very moment that I ever thought of how irritating that must have been for him! A mans man, a tough guy, the leader of the pack sleeps under a hot pink shiny bed spread.

They had had that bed frame all of my life. For most of the lives of both of my brothers too. My Mother would often recall the early days when all five of us were crammed into that bed due to various nightmares and the monsters who were unquestionably under our own beds.

This is the safest place I have ever known. Here I am special. Here I am comforted. Here I am happy.

I lay with my head on his chest with his grown man chest hairs alternating between tickling my nose and totally grossing me out. We watch Star Trek and explains to me how no one can ever out do the beauty of the human form so they have to make them gross and scary. All of this I listen to while keeping one ear on his heart.

This how I spent so many nights growing up. It never seemed to matter the hour or occasion. Whether it be a bad dream, a poor race performance, exhaustion from another long rehearsal or a broken heart, He and his heart were ready for me.

I have always understood my Father's heart. It's steadfast determination combined with a quiet gentle way has always made sense to me. Even its needs for a moment of silence before powering forward, I understood and it taught me patience.

In this moment I was happy. I was loved. I knew that right there I was special. I understood him, and he understood me. We understood each other and we were happy.

Even if we didn't understand my Mother's choice of bedspread.