I REMEMBER being much closer to my mother growing up as a girl child. The relationship with my father was one of affection, yet punctuated with an oddity of distance.
He was a soft spoken man, a person of few words, and always thoughtful about the unfolding of life. He spent most of his time and energy in the garden. I can’t recall a moment of direct conversation with him, yet I feel there might have been and that it’s my frail human memory that can’t fit the puzzle of recollection together.
When my father died, I had already entered into the world of womanhood. The occasion of my father’s death brought about much soul searching. I was freshly minted out of one of the main universities but was without a job.