'Edifice' by Peter Hodges

I asked my father what was an edifice. A big question for a small boy.
My father smiled, gave his answer, and left me a riddle. I went into town with my mother. Maybe there would be something that would make me look up and say, yes, there is an edifice. My curiosity fired, I looked all the time. My mother said to mind where I was stepping. We came to the bus stop. The bus arrived. I shot upstairs to grab a seat at the front. But from here I looked down, not up.
On the street, I strode ahead, saw the church. Here was where my father once took me sightseeing. From the tower he showed me the landmarks. The distant hill, the woods, a large house. I asked was the hill higher than the church, and my father replied, yes it was. But I remember it never seemed that way. From there nothing seemed higher. Not when one was looking down.
My father is dead. I have my answer. It has taken long years. Like an old photograph without a name, it is only a passing that reminds. Perversity of death brings sudden clarity and understanding. Frailty of years, but always there was the smile: remember this, remember that. Only now do I see my edifice. All the time it was he.