My Fake Father

 

                              

I've written about Serge before.

The first time I saw him, he was sitting with his mother in the café, I was sure it was my father. Both my daughter and cousin later agreed with me when they saw him.

Of course, it wasn't. My father died 42 years ago in another country.

At first when I spoke to him about the resemblance, Serge acted like I was a crazy American lady, but when I showed him a photo of my dad, his mother agreed with me.

She is 95 and was part of the Retirada, the 100,000-refuge march that survived crossing the Pyrenees fleeing Franco in January 1939. They ended up in concentration camps on the Argelès beach.

Little by little we became chatting friends. 

Last week at first, I didn't recognize him with his cap and sunglasses. I mentioned his chapeau. Casque, his mother corrected me. 

There is something reassuring about Serge in his own right. 

Rick says when he sees him, "There's your Dad."

Seeing him brings up all the good memories. I feel a surge of love for the man I lost decades ago. At the same time, I enjoy the now of knowing Serge for himself, his kindness to his mother, his smile. 

I wish my Dad were alive although he would be much too old and feeble at 111 to be here with me and meet Serge. Hopefully, by now my father would have come to grips with my decisions to live in Europe and become Swiss and Canadian.

Still, I like to imagine a photo of them, side-by-side sipping coffee at Mille et Une. His mother, Rick and I would be there too.

Note: Visit D-L's webpage at https://dlnelsonwriter.com