Before going to bed last night I looked in the mirror. I've gotten so used to seeing the years etched in that time worn face that I almost missed the reflection. It comes at the speed of light you know, and you have to be quick to catch it.
It wasn't my face I saw in the mirror-it was my father's face. So much like mine that I almost missed the resemblance. Although he's been gone now more than fifteen years it was like seeing him again. While we both lived we never resembled each other-no one looking at the two of us would think we were father and son. But now that time has arrested his aging and brought me abreast of him you can't tell us apart. We're like two peas in a pod.
My father and I were not alike years ago, but I've grown to be a lot like him and I catch myself thinking the way he did, complaining the way he did, and yes, living the way he did when my mother passed away. He was a widower too and the agony of being without her was more than he could bear. He might have been less alone if I gave him more of myself, but a man only has so much to give, and the little he does have he gives to his wife and children, and himself. So my father languished-he grieved, and he thought about the good old days for the four months he lived after my mother died, and I see myself now in the mirror looking the way he did with only myself as company.
So it was another restless night, restless because in spite of the progress I've made in the quality of my life, the fact remains I've turned out to be my father. You see...there's no difference in our ages now. I'm as old as he got to be and it scares me to think I may be the same man. In spite of the progress and the explosion of information that I've been privileged to enjoy, his seed has grown to be just like him. He never answered the phone when it rang-no one dropped in to pass the time of day with him. He never opened a letter/letters were bad news, no one wrote to tell of good news.
We grow, don't we? I hope we grow to the extent that we can cope with the changes we face every day. But are we any different? Are we just updated with the original text unchanged?
In the morning I shaved-with an electric razor, (something he never did)...I anointed myself with oil after showering with a non-allergenic and colorless soap. I washed what's left of my hair with a substance that's guaranteed to make it healthier and fluffier. Then I took another look. There he was; a little better groomed perhaps, but still looking back at me as though to say, "You're not gettin' off that easy, old boy-the old Chevy ain't gonna run any better just because you polished it."
But, like so much of the advice he gave me as a child, it proved wrong. The old Chevy, with all its dings and scratches got through the day a little more gracefully. It seemed to run smoother too, it usually does when he's riding along with me.
(c)1995 Harry Buschman