In memory, a father wore a singular scar on his forehead, a mark that bent into a question whenever he frowned. The family never learned its origin. He offered a procession of explanations—a mishap with a stone, a tumble, a minor surgical error. The children teased him, joking that if he ever frowned at gatherings after dinner, the question would fully appear for all to see. It became a playful, intimate joke that lent their nights a peculiar warmth, a private humor that knitted them together. When his body rested at the funeral home, the same question mark reappeared on his forehead, recreated by the funeral technician at the family’s request. They perceived it as a tribute, a lasting remnant of a life lived with a hint of mystery and a touch of mischief.
Everyone bears a question mark somewhere, visible or tucked away. In moments of crisis, that quiet inquiry surfaces: what is the meaning of life? A friend shared that his son asked the same existential question, and the father admitted that he did not have a ready answer. The moment lingered, unsettled and unmistakably human.
Children naturally pursue practical matters—how to replace a bicycle chain, or whether mulled wine or beer pairs better with a roast lamb. Discussing the meaning of life with a child can be delicate, even painful, especially when the speaker does not yet have a clear answer. The tension between everyday concerns and existential curiosity often reveals how people cope with uncertainty.
The father who loved electricity offered hands-on lessons. He demonstrated how to assemble simple circuits on wooden boards, threading wires from a light socket to a basic switch and a small battery. When the circuit completed and the light glowed again after a test, the moment felt nearly miraculous. From that early experiment, the writer understood that meaning was not found in grand philosophy but in practical problem solving: ensuring home appliances work, keeping plumbing leak-free, and sustaining a sense of order. That modest aim grew into a metaphor for bigger questions, a reminder that everyday fixes can illuminate deeper truths.
Even without venturing into abstract debates, the father carried a metaphysical question on his brow, a symbol that never fully left the writer. Tonight, as the bedtime routine begins, the image returns: the father lying still, a question etched on his brow. The writer carries that question inside and seeks an answer by weaving sentences that resemble the construction of an electrical circuit—carefully linking ideas, testing hypotheses, and watching outcomes spark into existence.