Fathers and daughters. My father was a good guy, but sadly, for too much of the too-short time we shared on this planet, he and I were unable to see eye to eye. Born a day apart on the calendar, when our birthdays would roll around, he’d joke that I was his birthday gift. He likely spent most of the year’s remaining days wishing I’d come with a refund policy!
Words of praise were not in the lexicon of my formative years. Before he passed away (and not because he foresaw he was dying), he said some things to me that made everything all right, fortunately. When times are especially challenging, the words of our late conversations come back to help and heal and encourage me. With the tangibility that belongs to memories of love, I can feel the warmth of the heel of his hand as he brushes away the tears of his child’s hurt, the same way his father, my wonderful Grandpa, did for him.
[Croutons from my Father, by Meredith Hoffa in today’s NY Times is a Father’s Day gift all can appreciate.]