Want to know about MY dad? Here's a column I wrote in 2004

THE FATHER IN MY HEART
PAT GARBER

A few weeks ago, I found a picture of my Dad that I had never seen.
It has quickly earned a special place in my heart.
I don't value it for the quality of the photograph. It's far too overexposed for that. There's so much light coming into the camera lens that most of the details have been completely washed out. My father's face is almost completely lost in a bright flash of white that almost overtakes the whole frame.
But there's enough detail to show that he has his arms wrapped around me and my brother Scott as we stare, blank-faced, into the camera, as we pose by a tree.
The picture was taken near the home where we lived, on the corner of West End Boulevard and Jarvis Street, in August 1964. I was 14 months old, my brother was 2, and my father was 46.
Eight years after that grainy black-and-white photo was taken, my father died.
I have few photographs of my Dad. I like this one the best because it's the only one that I know of that shows the loving bond between him and me.
I know that bond was there, nurtured over countless trips to Tanglewood and the Nature Science Center that was once in Reynolda Village. My Dad, my brother and I did many things together, and I considered him my best friend.
If we had known he would be gone when I was just 9, I'm sure more pictures would have been taken. As it was, Dad was our family's photographer. He's in precious few of the family photographs that fill several freezer bags at my mother's house.
He was usually behind the lens, preferring to snap the picture instead of appearing in it. I still have the camera, part of the Kodak Retina Series of cameras, that he used in the last years of his life.
I'll be darned if I know how to use it. But I often wonder, as I look through its viewfinder, if we compose the world in the same way - as if I could look into this vastly changed world and somehow figure out some kind of universal truth that the two of us could see together that could be captured forever on film.
I'll never really know.
It's part of the mystery of losing a parent at such a young age.
Just as you could look at the picture and wonder about the ghostlike features that the sun erased 40 years ago, I can trace my life through time and wonder how things would have been different had my father been there for me beyond the nine years we spent together.
But I'll never really know.
I am a father, too. My son, Sean, is 3. Already, the pictures I have of the two of us could fill a freezer bag.