A wine glass from Belgium or "When did you last see your Father?"

As I begin this I realize that very soon you are going to see a pattern; certain themes will emerge (and maybe, just maybe you will think me shallow perhaps, or at best, sad in the pursuit of that which seems of such little consequence). Of course it's not intential or maybe that should be...it's not premeditated or planned. Mmm. Anyway, as I look through my journal, all faux leather and gilt edged, Christmas gift from my sister, I realize from reading the titles and themes I've written down for these forays into the ether, (assuming I write them as they suggest themselves to me) that they are all about the same things. Actually, that's not true and...aaghh! You know what, now I'm well and truly in 'tangent city' so...without further ado; the Belgian wine glass. I've never seen another like it; fluted and cylindrical with a rounded bottom and a crystal ringing tone when flicked. I've had it for as long as I can remember and it belonged to my father; he got it from his father who bought it when they were together on some kind of trip to Belgium, though why my father of 19 was with his father in Belgium I have no idea, but the photograph I have of that occassion is strangely evocative and absolutely delightful. Two men in suits striding out along the seafront, hands in pockets, perfectly in step. I have no idea what kind of relatiionship they had, all I know is that my father nearly always wore a suit, never a tie and always with plimsoles! (Well, after this picture anyway). I still miss him sometimes even though he died when I was 10 years old. He'd read me stories sitting on his lap by the coal fire; he'd take me to the park and kick a ball high into the air among the rows of tall trees, straining ever harder to break out into the empty sky above and I still have the drawings he sent me for Christmas from his hospital bed.

As I look into the Belgian glass, filled with deep red wine, I remember my father and wonder what life would have been like had he lived, grateful that I became who I am yet puzzled by the strangeness of a life cut short.

Here's to you Dad, wherever you are!

(As the dulcet tones of Roy Ebden used to utter at the end of his radio show: "If you have been, thanks for listening") Sorry the picture's so fuzzy.