The day that I have been dreading.
The day marked on my calendar, not that it needs to be marked. The day when reality reminds you through every Father's Day ad in the Toronto Star, every Canadian Tire flyer and every restaurant that welcomes Fathers and their families.
June 17th, 2012. Father's Day.
But what is a Father's Day without a father? At least a father that lives amongst us. A father that enjoys a barbeque cooked by a wife and a daughter, with dessert. And maybe, some ice cream. Maybe even a pecan pie, if you're lucky.
A father that enjoys easy banter with his son. A father that sheepishly opens gifts. Usually an article of clothing or some tool or another that allows him to do what he loves best. Work with his hands. Or show off his newest comfy clothes, or sleak new running shoes.
What is Father's Day, without a father?
It's a trip to the cemetary.
It's staking a solar-powered light by his tombstone, because he lit up every room he was in. Every park or home or restaurant or community centre or church or picnic or holiday or family gathering.
Its planting flowers by his gravesite. For all the flowers he dug into his garden, watering, fertilizing, and watering again. For all the flowers he presented Mom on many occasions.
Its praying to Dad. That he hears us, that he knows we miss him every moment of each and every day. That he nows we know he is up there, watching over us. Guiding us when we make a misstep, or speak a misword or fall. Especially when we fall.
Its burning messages written on paper, to him. Messages that we would have written in the father's day cards that will never be again.
Messages that remind him that he is loved, cherished, and honoured.
Dad. Our beacon, our bouquet, our fire.
Our.
Dad.
It's a trip to the cemetary.
It's staking a solar-powered light by his tombstone, because he lit up every room he was in. Every park or home or restaurant or community centre or church or picnic or holiday or family gathering.
Its planting flowers by his gravesite. For all the flowers he dug into his garden, watering, fertilizing, and watering again. For all the flowers he presented Mom on many occasions.
Its praying to Dad. That he hears us, that he knows we miss him every moment of each and every day. That he nows we know he is up there, watching over us. Guiding us when we make a misstep, or speak a misword or fall. Especially when we fall.
Its burning messages written on paper, to him. Messages that we would have written in the father's day cards that will never be again.
Messages that remind him that he is loved, cherished, and honoured.
Dad. Our beacon, our bouquet, our fire.
Our.
Dad.
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