My Fatherless Father's Day
It's difficult not to let the summer slip away from me. I'm putting in a lot of hours at work again, and when I'm not there it seems like I'm doing some project around the house. Right now we're working on a fence for the side yard that will keep Cinder from chasing the neighbor's car and getting dashed beneath their tires again. We're taking photos of the work and I'm keeping a little log (well, okay, it's still inside my head). I'm planning to make a webpage for the site.
Last Sunday was Father's Day, and it was pretty difficult for me. I wondered beforehand how I would react. I was in the driveway cutting wood for the fence posts when a story came on the radio promoting a new book of essays by famous people on the subject "What Baseball Means to Me." Of course, the day before the holiday, they kept talking about the bonds between father and son forged during baseball games, and how this would make a perfect present. I tried to keep working, but I just stood there with the saw in my hand, weeping into my safety goggles. Wendy told me to sit down and let it all out and I did…for about twenty minutes. I guess the odd thing about grieving is that there is no straight path to acceptance. A couple days before, I felt like I was adjusted to him being dead, but then again on Saturday it felt like the most unbelievable injustice. I had tried to pre-accept his death. When he was sick but still alive, I tried to keep consciously remind myself of the fact that he was still alive and that I was fortunate that he was since two friends had already lost their fathers.
Last Sunday was Father's Day, and it was pretty difficult for me. I wondered beforehand how I would react. I was in the driveway cutting wood for the fence posts when a story came on the radio promoting a new book of essays by famous people on the subject "What Baseball Means to Me." Of course, the day before the holiday, they kept talking about the bonds between father and son forged during baseball games, and how this would make a perfect present. I tried to keep working, but I just stood there with the saw in my hand, weeping into my safety goggles. Wendy told me to sit down and let it all out and I did…for about twenty minutes. I guess the odd thing about grieving is that there is no straight path to acceptance. A couple days before, I felt like I was adjusted to him being dead, but then again on Saturday it felt like the most unbelievable injustice. I had tried to pre-accept his death. When he was sick but still alive, I tried to keep consciously remind myself of the fact that he was still alive and that I was fortunate that he was since two friends had already lost their fathers.
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