This first year since my Father’s death is punctuated with milestones ... birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. Today is one of those holidays, the American celebration of fathers. I observe it with no phone call or bear hug, but with a years-old Hallmark card.
My siblings and I earlier this year sifted through my Dad’s stuff. My Father lived in the homestead he built for us decades ago, kept relatively clutter-free by disposing of ephemera regularly.
Not much of a sentimentalist, my Pop rarely hung onto our mutual memorabilia except for photos of his wife and my beloved Mother, their six children and respective partners, 12 grandchildren, and five great-grandkids.
On the tall bookcase in between the dining and living rooms, and tucked behind a slender statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, I spied a slim stack of dog-eared greeting cards.
I slid them off the top shelf to inspect. Of the dozen or so cards he kept, five were from me: a postcard, two birthday, and two father’s day. Including this one:
It’s touching to imagine him deliberately saving these sentiments. I wonder whether he pulled them from their perch and thought of me, thinking of him?
Now, here I sit hundreds of miles away and months after his transition, thinking of him, thinking of me.
June 15, 2014
Happy Father’s Day, Pop!
You are a remarkable force of nature who taught me to see the beauty that surrounds, the meaning of commitment and hard work, and the value of unconditional love. I am grateful.
I miss you. I love you.