My father’s son, or how I turned into my dad

I am in my mid fifties. My hair is white. It is thinning too; one can not really see it when my hair is dry, unless one is near enough to observe these bald spots. When my hair is wet, one can easily note the thinness of my head of hair.

My father was the same at my age. I never considered him old because his face, and his eyes, still held some bit of youth in them.


I am the same; I think. Most people are surprised when I tell them my age. “I look younger,” they say. They fail to mention just how much younger I look. I still take their comments as a complement.

My father was a good man. He worked hard during the week, and he played harder on the weekend. I get these from him too. Although, I no longer party like I once did.

My father loved weekends. He’d be up early mornings come the weekend something he grudgingly did during the week. He loved a party: friends and family, and down-home music. He lived for his weekends. Except, my being a morning person, I get that too.

I resemble him too short, big, the same eyes, and the same smile. I guess, in a lot of ways, I am my father’s son.
—Robert Confiant 20 December 2017


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