What it would be like to hang out with my Dad.
In different situations.
Like, Memorial Day.
I wish I could hear his epic stories from the Korean and Vietnam war.
My dad died whenever I was five.
I remember watching Tales From the Crypt with him.
I remember toddler memories of him.
Yet, I feel like a whole entire historic library has been burned and destroyed.
I’ll never know his stories.
Sometimes, my mom tells me amazing stories.
My favorite one involves the Hells Angels partying while some tribal people show up and surround them and my mom shoots off a machine gun while my Dad was somewhere rescuing prisoners of war and bringing them back to the party to safety.
I wonder if my drive for adventure comes from him and if that is possible.
I used to talk to my mom about Buddhism and one day she told me that he was a Buddhist.
I wish he would have written his stories down.
I find pictures of him standing next to massive weapons used in the Army in his day and wonder so much about them.
This makes me feel like I should remind myself that maybe one day someone will find my own personal stories to be significant. I tend to slack on writing about them, yet I replay my favorite moments over and over through my mind almost on a daily basis.
After I started really getting into painting, I discovered a painting by my Dad that my sister owns, too.
Is it possible to have traits like these passed down from someone I never had a chance to get to know?
He was an amazing artist that traveled the world in epic adventures.
That sounds right up my alley.
I wonder what else I don’t know about him.
I’m glad that he met my mom and brought her over to America from Vietnam and had a litter with her.
And I’m super glad to be the last of the litter.
Thanks Dad, for letting me be a part of your adventures.
RIP Evert Van Davis.