Honestly, I’m clearing my bloglines. I can’t click through the myriad of bolded posts calling to me, fearing that any or all of them will be the expected Father’s Day posts.
I didn’t write one this year, even though, like most of the posts that you likely wrote, I could easily fill a page with wonderful words about my husband. I could easily find the words to pay tribute to a wonderful man that became a wonderful husband and a wonderful father. I could tell you that even when we’re fighting, I still think he’s hot; that even when I’m at my worst, he finds a way to be his best. But I couldn’t.
Because for me, yesterday was not about my children’s father. It was about mine.
About this first, painful father’s day without him, a mere two days after the first time in my life that I did not mark June 13 by celebrating my father’s birthday. My dad did not turn 66 on Friday. I did not see the announcement of his birthday on my calendar, marked in red and given the ultimate kgirl tribute of an exclamation mark. I could not bear to mark the day this year; to look at it on it’s proper square all month but know that it would never arrive. I did not call him and sing to him, and then hear him make the requisite joke that if I really cared about him having a good day, I wouldn’t have sang.
And yesterday, Father’s Day, I once again did not call him. I did not buy him the latest Bruce Springsteen or Dixie Chicks album, or the Alison Krause/Robert Plant CD that I know he would have loved. I did not send him the most recent, adorable pictures of his growing, adorable granddaughters. Bee did not get on the phone and squeak her love to her ‘Big Guy.’
I’m sorry, Chris, that the shadow of my father cast a cloud on a day that I could have spent celebrating you. But goddamn, that shadow still knows how to wrap itself around my chest and squeeze until the breath is almost out of me. And this weekend, well, I was having trouble breathing.