I wasn’t particularly close to my father. A child of divorce overshadowed by anger there wasn’t the warm, fuzzy relationship that creates daddy’s girl. It wasn’t like I didn’t know him, I knew him, I spent time with him, even though we lived many states away. He wasn’t a stranger. Well, not really.
But it wasn’t until this Father’s Day, 22 years after he had passed that I felt the pang of missing him. It’s not that I didn’t think of him over the past 22 years, I did. But this year was different. I missed him, really missed him deep in my heart. And it startled me. And that’s when I realized that I didn’t really know him, not the way I should have, not the way that, after all these years I realized, how I needed to know him.
He didn’t love with words, nor kindness. His love was angry, disciplined, and tough. I didn’t resent it then and I don’t resent it now. But I realize that through it all we didn’t know one another and it created a barrier. And that made me miss him.
It was Father’s Day and I realized that I didn’t know the man I called dad. I knew the man he was professionally. Educated. Well liked and well known. Respected. Accomplished. A man a child can be proud of. He was a father. But he wasn’t daddy.
There is so much I could say right now. But nothing will change the past. There is so much that I didn’t say to him. And now it’s too late. 22 years later I realize that I cannot have the conversations that I needed to have, that I need to have now. 22 years later, 22 years too late.
Father’s Day. A day to remember our fathers. Even 22 years later, it’s a day to remember.
God bless, and be blessed.