I speak from the heart, for those who cannot. I speak of love, of love for life. I speak for my father.
From whom, in the end, came only garbled words and discordant grunts to get my attention, to show his feelings, to be understood.
Using his palm on the table, he would express himself, as if on a drum. A rhythmic emphasis like modern music--easily interpreted by those who love and feel its language.
His off-key emotions would rise to a crescendo, leaving his true self trapped inside. Instead, he wept when I told funny jokes and laughed when we watched sad movies. His anger was rare, crashing like cymbals though never toward me.
His soft touch, his silent strength, his enduring courage spoke to me in ways words never could. His intelligent eyes searched mine hoping I could understand. He would reach for my hand and hold on tight with firm determination to never give up.
All that is left of my father is a beautiful symphony playing in my head, always inspiring me to speak from the heart.
Fisher Photos and Prose 