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Still my hero

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When you were five years old, who was your hero? What do you think of that person today?

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When I was 5 he was my hero. The perfect man. The one who knew all the answers. The one with whom I was completely safe. The one who never deceived me. The one who defended me from all dangers. The one who taught me to talk, to pray and to sing. My dad. He was a quiet man, with beautiful blue eyes and a charming smile. Later I learned that he was a journalist, a professor, a writer and a poet.

I didn’t know he had a hazardous and heroic life during WWII and after. Plenty of sufferings. He was forcibly separated from my mother during twelve years, two of his brothers were killed, he was held prisoner and tortured. Despite all that pain there was no bitterness in him. How he did it? He said with God’s help. He was a man of great faith.

As I was growing and knowing more about his life I’d admired him more and more. Not only by knowing about his past life, but by witnessing his everyday life. So honest, good humoured, simple, joyful, till the end.

Once, in a homage dedicated to my father they asked me: how would I define him?. I told them he was like an open door. He was always working even at home. But I never went to him and found him telling me he was too busy to pay attention and take care of me. Nor when I was little neither when I grew up. He was always ready to listen to me, to talk to me. He never failed me.

He died almost thirteen years ago and it seems as if it was yesterday. I miss him so much. He still mi hero.

Daily Prompt: Heroic.
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Posted by

Journalist. In my fifties. I've worked for 26 years in a newspaper in Spain. I worked for two years as a stringer and correspondent in the US, and went as a special envoy to other places like the Balkans. Sea lover. Avid reader. Classic Music enthusiast.

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