It’s Father’s Day. The kids will be here and I’ll make dinner. We’ll have some wine or a beer or two, we’ll laugh, and Paul will open his gifts.
There won’t be any little cards with hand prints, or cardboard ties with promises of chores to come. No cups made of clay, no tie clips made of macaroni. No drawings to hang on the cupboards, no paragraph about “Why my Dad is my hero.” We won’t hear the word “Daddy” even once.
And I won’t make the drive to my parents house, with a gift of a carefully chosen book on baseball or the biography of a famous historical figure. I won’t get a chance to put my arms around my Dad’s broad chest, or kiss his cheek, or hear him call me “little girl”. I won’t hear his voice as he reads each card out loud. I won’t see my brothers and sisters gathered around the round table in Mom’s kitchen as she serves us dinner. I won’t be there to honor my Dad, because he is no longer here to be honored.
But I’m still thinking of you, Dad, and I’m still so grateful to have had you in my life for so long. I miss you.