As I approach the date of my dad’s death anniversary I am once again reminded of a very weird thing. I am older than my father. Huh? You might ask, but yes, it is true. For those of you that don’t know, my father was murdered in cold blood when I was only ten. He was only thirty three. I am, ah-hem…older than that, and have been for some time. When I turned thirty four, I was really weirded out. It is hard to imagine being older than a parent.
I remember being thirty three and how grown up I thought I was. Dad had three kids! I didn’t have any. At Thirty three, I didn’t even have a house yet, I was still a happy renter, but he and Mom had a house, cars, solid work, kids and lots of family. As I reflect, it looked like the "perfect" life. Of course, I know it wasn’t, but as a daughter and his little girl, it was!
Now, as an adult, I know the problems for a thirty three year old…house, cars, solid work, kids, (even if mine have fur) and all of the stress that puts on me at my age, much less at Dad’s age. It’s just a weird thing, knowing that I am older than him. I’ve matured, grown up without him. I used to think about it when I was little, after he died that I’d live a day past my thirty third birthday day. Maybe I didn’t want to, or maybe I just couldn’t imagine it, but whatever it was, I’m way past that, and it’s weird. I’m glad I’m here. I’ll be here till God is ready to take me home, where I’ll see God and my dad again. That will be a really cool day, but for now, I suppose, I’ll just have a weird time being older than my dad.
No comments:
Post a Comment