Following fading footprints
I was 18 when my father died. He was 48. It makes for easy arithmetic - 30 years between us, almost exactly. This year I'm 50. I'm now 2 years older than my father was when he died. And I've come to a realisation - a powerful one I can only relate via analogy. But first, some background: My father was mysterious figure for most of my childhood: a man who was just as likely to say something profound, if brief, as he was to become irritable. I learned early on to give him space. For most of my life, he was a person I feared as much as loved and respected. You see, I don't think my father knew how to be a parent largely because he had come from a broken home - torn apart by World War II and by the oppressive communist regime that followed it. He had scars - and we, his family, could feel them even if we couldn't see them - or know what they were. So my father didn't know how to "be" with children. With adults, he was the ideal companion - a raco...