Ten Memories of My Father

Image by Mabel Amber from Pixabay

A story of finding one’s way back from the dark corners of loss.

I love the taste of beets, sweet and soaked in memories. I travel in time to rediscover lost thoughts about my father.

I’m three years old. My father looks like a giant, his hairy arms like pillows ready to cuddle my head. I can see him in my grandparent’s kitchen, placing me on a wooden stool in front of the sink. He smiles and opens the oven door, the steam rushing outside, enveloping my body in a warm hug. Then, meticulously, Dad uncovers the round, soft core of the reddish beet from its gray crust, placing it carefully on the table next to the roast bathed in garlic and herbs. He keenly tells the story of the beet, and I think, what a beautiful thing to have my father be the master of beets. Years later, beets still bring him into my thoughts like a ghost of the taste. I can almost feel him smiling at me while I bite into its red, bloody core with relish.

On some Sunday mornings, when I lay in bed with my chosen one, I see my parents giggling and whispering underneath their flowery sheets. I see myself, a four-year-old, half-opening the door and glancing inside, seeing them kiss and play. They surprise my intrusion and wink at me as a sign to come in. I step inside, unsure, proud, and fearful to have the privilege to walk into the forbidden territory. I cuddle into their arms; we…