It’s just hours into the new day. Today is Father’s Day, June 15th, 2008. It’s the first ever without. On the verge of weepy all week and living a bit in my head. Ironic. It’s because of my Dads’ unexpected death a few months ago that a new version of me emerged, built back stronger after shattering like a pane of glass and with thousands more reflective rays. Never really believed I was worthy of respect from a man, love from a man, any men. The first love affair a girl has is with her father, and it shapes every male relationship to come after. But in an all-too-short handful of months, after 40-some years, I let him love me. Exactly as I am and exactly as he could. And he did. And I loved him right back. He’d love me even more now because I finally do.
It took his heart to stop beating for me to get that.
Saturday I went to hear music my Dad would have liked. He turned me on to Johnny Cash; I knew “At Folsom Prison” front and back before grade school. A singer introduced a tribute to his late, and obviously much beloved, Uncle. He sang of a man, “drinking his greyhounds”. I wept behind big, black shades, tears that had wanted to come for days. I chatted briefly with the singer/nephew later; he introduced me to his son, Jake. "A greyhound is vodka and grapefruit, isn’t it?” I asked, knowing the answer. The question threw him before he replied, “Yes, yes it is”. My Dad drank greyhounds, called them his “juice”. I may put back a couple later today.
This year I could have perused the racks at Hallmark without vetoing a majority of the cards, being careful with selection and sentiment. I could have sent any one. Maybe just knowing that means something more than a heavy paper stock signed, sealed and delivered via U.S. Postal. Still wish I could have sent one, though. And I wish for time I can’t have to expose more of the surface we scratched.
But we got through a thick layer.