Repetitive Irony

I have to think back to when I was a child of age 6 or 7, for the last time I recall my father residing in my house. My mother would tell my brother and I, versions of what happened in their divorce. I had no reason to disbelieve my mother.

  I have to think back to when I was a father of two daughters ages 7 and 2, for the last time I recall residing with my father in his house. As my own marriage was failing, I would learn of what really happened in his divorce. I had no reason to disbelieve my father.

  Friends of my father later confirmed some truths, and my perception of his role as a father was forever altered.

  This week, my father flew from Australia to the United States and will be residing with me for a while. I have one final opportunity to make some memories with him, as I watch the man who was once a giant, struggle.

  His father passed away without him, when his own children were a great distance away.

  History, it appears, is not without repetitive irony.