Theresa Lewis

Today, I opened a drawer and found my father’s pocket magnifying glass. It is a three inch square that has a leather patch on the front and back that slide to the side and can be held as a handle. I remember that magnifying glass from the time I was a child. My father usually had it in his pocket along with a tiny pen knife.

 

When my father was young, he didn’t always carry the magnifying glass with him, but as he got older, it was always in his pocket so he would be able to read the fine print on things without having to wear his reading glasses.

 

One of my brothers, who was six years old at the time, was often allowed to sleep in my parents’ bed until it was time for them to go to bed. On one particular night when I was babysitting my siblings, I went upstairs to check on the little ones and make sure that they were alright. Having checked on all the others and finding them all asleep, I paused outside the closed door to my parents’ bedroom and felt that I should go in to check on my brother. I had a feeling that he wasn’t asleep and was up to mischief.

 

I opened the door quietly and asked my brother what he was doing. He said he wasn’t doing anything. I held out my hand and told him to give me what he was hiding under the covers.

He looked so guilty. Finally he handed me a penlight flashlight and our father’s magnifying glass. I asked him what he was doing with them. He replied that he was looking at the hairs on his teddy bear’s stomach.

 

That memory flooded back to me today as I held the magnifying glass in my hand. My dad has been dead for well over twenty years now, but that memory from so long ago has always remained with me. I cherish that little magnifying glass and the memories of my dad that are still fresh in my mind.

 

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