Waiting

Much of the part of my father's life that I was witness to was spent in quietude. He was always contemplating something, and when it was not a figure model, it was oftentimes a vigorous ant trail crossing my parent's back patio. Oddly enough, I think he related to them more than he did your average person. He spent most of his life in the military, and he liked to remark about how much he admired their organization. He was also fond of science fiction, and had scads of used paperbacks crammed onto homemade shelves in his garage office.

I never knew him to have a job, as he had retired from service by the time I was 6 or 7. When he showed up to live at home in the late 60s, I was frightened, as I didn't recognize him. I don't know that I ever really succeeded in getting to know him, as he worked very hard at being obscure. He answered questions with questions, and kept people off balance with his vaguely off-center remarks. It really wasn't a rewarding experience to make any sort of inquiry at all, and so I kept my distance. He preferred it that way, and I never had a better relationship with him than when I lived in Italy, thousands of miles away. He was a very faithful letter writer. I looked forward to his letters, as they nearly always contained a bit of wisdom from a sage philosopher or two.

And so, this brings me to the title I have given this image, and the part of my life in which I place this woman. She sits quietly, waiting, watching, dreaming, interpreting, trying to understand this man that draws, day in and day out, to pass the time.