“My father! — methinks I see my father.”
Like Hamlet, it is only “in my mind’s eye,” but it seems so real.
It happens mostly when I’m shaving and looking in the mirror. That’s when I’ll see my late father, who has been gone now for nine years. I’ve got enough of his features to be pretty certain that there was no funny business going on regarding Mom, but I really don’t look a whole lot like him.
Still, there will be something in my reflection, maybe a facial expression or a tired look in my eyes that makes me think, “There’s Dad.”
I don’t need Father’s Day this weekend to remind me about my sire. Not a day passes without something reminding me of him.
Sometimes — not that often, but sometimes — he’ll be in my dreams, and it is always a genuinely happy experience, as if I got the chance to be with him again.
Don’t worry, folks. I’m not going off the deep end here. Unlike Hamlet and his old man, I don’t attribute any supernatural reasons for Heshie Pollak’s visits.
I fully realize that what’s going on is that neurons in the back of my brain are going gangbusters and smacking into each other while I’m engaged in rapid-eye-movement slumber. Dad wasn’t really there.
Still, it makes me feel good to see him.
That’s because I had the best father in the world. There are a lot of people who feel the same way about their fathers, and that is a very good thing.
What is a very bad thing is that all we seem to hear about these days are the bad fathers.
Maybe it’s the pro football player with a rich contract who fathers 12 children by eight women and winds up being sued for child support and alimony.