To all who are fathers and those who had reason to honor a father this past Sunday, I hope your day was full of good stories.
I got to talk to my brother, D, who is an excellent father. I so wanted to talk to my dad, but every year at this time, my dry drunk mother hoards him. This particular June, with our big move, I created some space for myself to not share the stress with her, by invited her to talk closer to June 11th.
I know that this is perceived by her as a withdrawal, and when I tried to resume our communication last week, no one answered the phone. My Father's Day call also has gone, unanswered.
My husband was out of town for this day, which is quite important to us. Twenty-three years ago, he and I were married on Father's Day. Our dads were present.
To honor our missing fathers on Sunday, my son and I decided on an art museum day, not even caring what was showing. We were glad to escape our new home and endless boxes. Only when we put on our museum tags did I realize a meaningful coincidence. All day we wore stickers bearing my husband's grandma's maiden name. Was that why it was important that my son skidaddled to this particular metropolis?
We fueled our tour with lunch. Secretly, I think my son really wanted most to go to the museum for just that purpose. Unlike the High, this museum had a real sit down restaurant complete with linen napkins. We had a lovely repast, remembering our dads far away.