She sat at the old school desk, under the eves of her attic bedroom. The days had flown - her senior year coming swiftly to an end. Her final English project lay strewn across the scarred surface of the desk. Only one more poem and character sketch and it would be done.
Her gaze shifted to the little six pane window to her left. There, two stories down, she saw her father walking down the driveway. He looked so different from this perspective.
At seventeen her eyesight, a perfect 20/20, was nevertheless a bit out of kilter. In spite of her clear vision, she had a tendency toward near-sightedness - always looking inward. From her teenaged vantage point, everything circled around her.
In her short-sightedness, she had viewed her father through the prism of self. His strict parenting made him appear one dimensional - the barrier standing between her and the things she thought she wanted.
But her vision cleared as she sat looking down that evening. She saw the man and felt her heart turn just a bit.
He's only trying to do what's best for me, she thought. He loves me. I know that. Nothing he's done has been unfair. Why, I'll bet there are times he feels unsure and afraid. He isn't a cardboard character living only to make my life miserable. He's my Dad.
She turned to write - not what she had intended - but what she knew was true. In her writing she tucked a lesson she hoped never to forget.
Blessings,
Linda
