Fourteen Years

My Dad died in an accident when I was two years old. I don't have any memories of him, and only know him from stories told to me by my Mom and my older siblings and from pictures. I have often wondered what he was like, what he sounded like and what our relationship would have been like if he had lived longer. But I didn't really feel his loss all that much, because when I was four years old, my step-father moved in with us.

Wayne wasn't very welcomed by my siblings, because unlike me, they remembered our father, and resented the presence of another man in the house. They didn't want another father. I, however, accepted him and loved him as if he were my father. He was a hard working man - a bricklayer, with all of the aches and pains that a job doing such hard physical labor brings with it. He was short - about 5'5" or so, maybe? He had a full head of hair that curled if it got too long, he had kind gray eyes and he loved me like I was his own daughter.

He died of cancer on January 18, 1993. I can't believe that 14 years have gone by without him. He was my father, for all intents and purposes, and I miss him everyday.

I love you Wayne. I'm thinking about you today, just as I do everyday. I hope wherever you are, you are happy, and I hope that you and Mom are once again together, playing cards and laughing the way you used to do.