My father had a short stint as a medical photographer. Images were black and white back then, like this one. In the scramble to provide for his family he was a teacher, engineer, marriage counselor, swimming coach, secretary, and man of the cloth. He did not parade these careers to impress me. I only found out about some of them much later. There was no need to woo my affections. I was his youngest and adored him. To the very end I cannot recall a time when he fell off the pedestal. Even when he was too exhausted from emphysema to play with his grandchildren, or visit me in California. Come to think of it, he never did visit me in any of my homes. But that did not matter.

One of my dearest memories was when we self published his book. I still have a copy. For those of you born in this century your mind probably goes to pdfs and electronic files. But our efforts involved a mimeograph and ink, paper and heavy duty staples. It was a collection of stories from his clients, the people who arrived with red rimmed eyes and left feeling lighter. 

There were no tangibles in his inheritance to us. Any financial resources he had left after the disease took his pension went to my mother, who lasted awhile longer. She, too, had little to bequeath us four children. But the intangibles have not run out. 

It isn't clear to me whether my parents felt grief over what they had or had not achieved. There were times when they couldn't hold it together, and were either sent away or left of their own accord. Sometimes with no forwarding address. 

I know they loved us.  And I am certain that they will be the very first to greet me when the time comes. Plus the world will be vibrant with color.