169 // This is My Gift

Tonight we saw my dad for his father’s day celebration. As always, it was a wonderful visit, and as always I wish there wasn’t that strange gap between us. It’s a hole that opened between us the day I was born, I imagine, and though it’s width has grown no wider since that day its depth has gone beyond our ability to fathom and our courage to leap over.

Such gaps between parents and their children are common, but each one is unique. The one between my father and I, from where I stand, is made of all my love, and all my anger, and all my wondering and regret. Its depth is all he couldn’t give and all my incessant wanting.

I’m sure from where he stands it must look different. From his side it may be darker, made of much more past and much more pain. I know this and for this reason I hold his hand above the fissure and squeeze it in forgiveness. For this reason, I ask nothing more than what I know is possible. This is my gift.

Happy Father’s Day.

167 // Talking to Dads

We never made it to the parade. I’m just still so exhausted from yesterday’s celebrations and shenanigans and I’m still so sore from all the walking and my ankles are beat up from the new shoes I wore. There was no way. All I wanted to do to was stay in bed but we still had so much to do I just had to suck it up, suck down some coffee, and do my best to be engaged. I think I did okay.

I didn’t get to see my dad (he had to work) but I called him, of course. He sounds tired, stressed, maybe sad? I worry about him a lot but it’s hard to tell him that because the way we talk to our dads is different than the way we talk to our moms. Maybe I will though, because the way we talk to our dads shouldn’t be different than the way we talk to our moms.