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Fatherhood
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Illustrated Resources
I Love You, Son
I have many memories of my father and of growing up with him in our apartment next to the elevated train tracks. But there is one which sticks in my mind more than any of the others. For 20 years, we listened to the roar of the train as it passed by our windows. Late at night, he would wait alone on the tracks for the train that took him to his job at a factory, where he worked the midnight shift. On this particular night early during World War II, I waited with him in the dark to say good-bye. His face was grim. His youngest son had been drafted. I would be sworn in at six the next morning while he stood at his paper-cutting machine in the factory. My father had talked about his anger. He didn't want them to take his child, only 19 years old, who had never had a drink or smoked a cigarette, to fight a war in Europe.
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