In the beginning . . .

The other day I remember how, long ago, I began to take a swipe at life's vicissitudes. I wrestled with the fact that for over six decades, I have been thrust into existence by forces beyond my grasp. Awareness crept in early and I began to confront dad about some "why(s)" a while ago. Teenage, puerile, bookish, with minds racing, rife with imaginations, dad admitted I was the first of forty-one children to dare ask dad of some "why(s)". One day in December, "Papa", I asked without even a tinge of fear, in the presence of one held like a god by all, "why is the sky blue . . . I mean most often?" Dad was quiet, uttered no answer. I learnt later, much later, the answer . . . "que sera, sera". Should have remembered Doris day and save dad the trouble.