If there is one thing every child does for their mother or father, it is draw them a picture. To a child, a bunch of magic markers and a blank piece of paper represent a canvas of imagination, a place for a child to translate the love, respect and admiration they have for their parents into the form of a drawing – a drawing that the child made for them out of pure, unconditional love – and a picture that the child’s parents will treasure for the rest of their natural lives.

When I was eight, I drew something for my father when I visited him at his office one day. My dad worked in an advertising agency, and he needed markers to draw his storyboards for commercials he created (among which were the 1980s line of very popular Puppy Chow Dog Food ads) – because at that time, computers were non-existent. I remember going to his office and seeing hundreds of magic markers stacked in cups and holders all over his desk – every child’s dream come true. I also realized that he had huge pieces of paper in his office which were used to create the storyboards for his commercial ideas. So I grabbed one of those huge pieces of paper, a dozen or so of his markers – and drew him a simple picture of a house, a tree, a sun, a rainbow and a few birds – and I signed it, “Love, Paul Wein.”

That was twenty-four years ago today – and the picture I drew him has survived almost two-and-a-half decades of family drama and relocation – and now hangs on my hallway wall as a silent tribute to my father – Edward Wein.

When I was done with my drawing, I gave it to him with all the pride in the world, hoping he would love it. It turns out that he loved it so much, that he immediately took it to a frame store to have it custom-framed that same day. When he picked it up a few hours later, and before he hung it on the wall, he turned the frame over and wrote the following in blue ink on the frame’s backside:

The picture hung in his office from that day forward – until April 21, 1981 – the day he passed away.

I didn’t see the picture again until over ten years later, when I met with my father’s two brothers to discuss my father’s passing after years of family bickering. Making a long story short, they cleaned out my dad’s house and office after he died and sold most of his personal property, for reasons I still do not understand. From the time he died to the time I was in my mid-twenties, I never knew what happened to the framed drawing I made for my father – until they gave it to me at that very same meeting.

When I saw it, I was immediately brought to tears, because I instantly remembered all the details that went into framing it that very day, because having lost my father at the tender age of nine – the all to few memories I have of him are very clear. While the picture I drew for him was intact, the glass was cracked and the matting around the picture was stained, so I decided to re-frame it. It wasn’t until I brought the frame to the framing store that I noticed my father’s inscription on the back. For so many years I prayed that I would find a secret inscription from my dad years after he passed away telling me how much he loved me. While the words he wrote do not say that in so many words – the fact that he wrote that on the back of a frame of a picture I drew for him that he had framed that same day speaks volumes of how much he loved his little boy.

Since receiving the picture, I have had it re-framed, including the cut-out inscription from my father in the new frame, along with a plaque that says, “In Memory Of Edward Wein.” I have also moved three times since then – and have hung the picture in a very prominent place in each house I have lived in.

I do not have many things left that belonged to my father. I have his desk, a carved baseball bat and an idol he brought back from Mexico, a pair of his glasses – and the picture I speak of on my wall. Having these few items makes me feel like, in a small way, I have him with me each and every day of my life. Its as if he is with me through these few but priceless items…

…and I was with him twenty-four years ago today – when I drew him that very picture.

He passed away over twenty-three years ago and to this day, not a day goes by that I do not think of him. To me, he was the best father a child could have ever hoped for. He was gentle, patient, attentive, loving – and the best damn father anyone could ever have. I do not have one single memory of him being a “bad father” – nor do I have any negative memories of him whatsoever. Instead, I have only nine short years of memories of a man who loved his son more than life itself – so much in fact – that a simple picture I drew for him meant enough to him to frame before the ink was even dry.

I have gone the last twenty-three years of my life without my father, and I know that I must go on for the rest of life without him. And while the pain of living without him is very hard, all I have to do is look at the picture I drew for him on June 2, 1980 – and remember how much I loved him…

…and how much he loved me.