As Father’s Day draws near, I think of how my father and my husband are alike. Here is a passage from my new book, Timeless: Love, Morgenthau, and Me:
“I believe that love is no accident, no whisper from a random universe. It comes from deeper channels of longing and recognition: a collection of tiny lights that gathered force long ago. The boy with long fingers sweeping the keys of a piano, an uncle’s laugh, a teacher who always listened. And the one who precedes them all. The father.
The things about him you never forget: his hands circling your waist, flying perilously in the air, sun-blinded, grains of sand rubbing against your cheek; your chubby hand smoothing back the soft bristles of his hair so they spring up again like soldiers.
Then, in a flash, you stand head-to-head, face-to-face. And he walks away, for you have become too mature, too near, a danger. Was it something you did? You are confused, guilty. An ineffable longing takes over and then eventually is forgotten.
The years go by, and one day you meet him again—the thistly chin, the bright smile, and, behind his glasses, the love that was always there. He’s not your father, but he is everything you wanted him to be.”