Atlas Falls

Atlas by Wilhelm Joys Andersen on

A new country. A refugee. An architect. An engineer. A builder. A real estate businessman. A 50 year career. A trail blazer. He was all of those things and more, but to me he was simply ‘Papa’. And to me, my father was Atlas. Period.


Fortunately when they were handing out fathers in heaven I ended up with the winning lottery ticket. He was love incarnate. Firm yet fair. Soft yet sage. But who he was on this earth is not the point of this blog. It cannot be. There isn’t enough time, space or language that would suffice. The point is the value of everything we have in our parents.


Not only do we have in them, the masons of our very existence, at any given time we have a friend, a confidant, a philosopher, a guide, a counselor, a chauffeur, a lawyer, a financial planner and more. On demand and free. We couldn’t afford to pay for it anyway. More importantly, there is not enough wealth in this world to secure their presence with us. They leave. They have to. And their time with us is finite.


I had my father for 51 years on this earth and we spoke everyday, sometimes more than once – seven oceans and several continents were no match for us. Yet the daughter in me wishes she had more. More time. More papa. It doesn’t even have to be on demand or free. But it doesn’t work that way. I cannot call or write or visit him on demand and no amount of money can change that. So while I learn to live life without the people who gave me mine, perhaps you still have the opportunity to reach yours. If you do, call. Write. Visit. Heck, do all three. Then rinse and repeat.


Do it while it is still free and on demand. Lucky you.




Image Courtesy: Wilhelm Joys Andersen on