Young child with dreams
Dream, ev’ry dream on your own
When children play
Seems like you end up alone
…
Shilo, when I was young
I used to call your name
When no one else would come
Shilo, you always came
And we’d play
The lyrics aren’t the best match, but this song and these words entered my mind when I heard the news. Someone I love passed away yesterday. He was my father figure during my teenage years, when I so desperately wanted to matter to my own father. I found a father figure in my friend’s dad. He stood in for me when there was a father daughter banquet at school. He always liked me, just because. He would tease me and make me laugh. He would ask me how I was doing. He was proud of me, even though I wasn’t his kid. I had the privilege of knowing him for the best of who he was, and it didn’t matter to me that he walked a rough road with his other children, before he came into my life. My friend, his daughter, was the youngest of six, and the only girl. She was his baby, and I was her friend. I could do no wrong. I looked up to him and admired him for being a man of men. I respected him and I think that meant something to him. Perhaps it helped smooth some of his regrets for rough roads of the past, troubles and trials with his own children. I don’t know. I just know that I loved him as a dad, and he loved me as a daughter. I will always remember him and hold him dear, and I think he knows that. Knew that.
He made me a wind catcher, many years ago. Twenty five years ago, or more. It’s been set aside for years and I’ve been meaning to hang it up. This weekend I finally did. Sunday. The day before he died. I was thinking of him, remembering him, loving him. Thinking of how he made this with his own hands, for me, for all his children.
Buzz Sawyer. My Shilo.
