I do not tend to be overly nostalgic but sometimes it just hits you. I have always had a weird relationship with my parents. I do not really like them. It was weird when my dad passed away from cancer a few years back because part of me felt like I owed him some tears and another part felt like who cares. It is not that I hate them. I guess it is more indifference. I feel like they were not in my life as a kid. A lot of my memories of my dad consisted of him being out on the road driving his big rig, sleeping all the time he was home, or beating me for waking him up.
Sometimes though there were good memories. As I wandered down my moms basement at Thanksgiving I ran smack into a pretty fun one. Sitting behind the boiler downstairs were two bow and arrows. They brought back some fun times. In front of our apartment complex with him hitting this skinny tree. Telling me stories of bow hunting in the woods. Letting me do some target shooting. I had a few of my own memories like the cops pulling me over while I was walking down the street looking for an arrow I shot into the air. oops. Luckily it was unstrung and I just got a warning.
My son eats up all the stories of my past life. He has already laid claim to one of the bows. Perhaps we can make some more memories at an archery range. Hopefully I can get my head out of my ass and be a better father for my kids.
I guess these nostalgic memories kind of surprise me. I have not visited my dads grave yet. Not because of any hatred or dislike but mostly because I do not see the point.