A life relived

I realized that I have never talked about my dad on my blog..
I'll keep it short, I promise.

My father was one of 5 children of a baker-family in a small town. He grew up knowing what it's like to be poor. He was an artist, who never really got to express himself. He sometimes painted for me - ideal visualizations of our family. Where my mother, my sister, my father and I would play in a garden and pick apples off a giant tree. I have seen pictures of him as an actor when he was younger. By the time I happened, he was already a different man. Struck by the fate of only being able to use his right arm, he became a chemist, calculating models and improving their efficiency. My sister, outcome of his first marriage, lived with him for a few years, before following her mom and half-sister to WestGermany in early 1989. My mom had moved in, of course, and they got married when I was 2 years old.
My mom and I moved out in early 1995. Since then, he was doing his best to be the best dad he could over the distance. He called me every day at 7 pm.
Until he didn't.

In the pocket of my winter coat, I carry the police-tape that was used to seal the door to my father's home. I often hold it in my hand as a reminder that it wasn't just a nightmare. Also, it reassures me that his memory will always live in me.

I am a lot like my dad. I may look just like my mom when she was my age, but my character resembles my dad's. He will live on through me and I will always do my very best as to not disappoint him. ... I miss him more than I am willing to admit.

Cheers to you, daddy.