It is the day after Father’s Day.  I stayed busy on Father’s Day going to church, working in the garden, being with the love of my life, Suzanne.  Today is different.  I have time to think.  I am thinking about Dad.  He died Labor Day weekend.  My thoughts are:  Father’s Day and no Dad.  I suddenly realize that something is missing.  Something missing from my life that has always been there.  I look at Dad’s picture on the dresser of our guest room.  He is wearing the cowboy hat that he often wore on special occasions.  The hat was on his chest in the casket.  I look at the picture and I remember.

Dad was a big man.  He had big hands and a big heart.  Injustice, especially aimed at children, angered him.  I remember his dark hair, dark complexion, and big hands.  When I was a child there was a tinge of fear when I thought of Dad.  He expected discipline.  I lived to please him.  I also remember his tender side.  He would watch the Jerry Lewis Telethon and call in pledges.  He thought anyone who hurt a child should be executed.  He demonstrated tough love sometimes.

  There were a few times when he held me close and let me know how much he loved me and appreciated who I was.  Just a few.  On this day after Father’s Day, those are the times I am remembering.  Dad was the bread earner.  The provider.  The one who took care of the really big problems.  There was nothing Dad couldn’t fix.  At least that is what I thought. 

There is definitely something missing in my life.  Father’s Day and no Dad.