Beyond that, I never knew him at all, really. The memories I have of my dad are very few. I remember being small and waking up early with my mom to see him off to his job as a carpenter. I remember watching Friday night TV curled up with him on the floor. I remember being angry with him for going on hunting trips where I knew he was going to kill Bambi. I remember him bringing me a giant stuffed owl from Wyoming that I named Snowy, which made me almost immediately forget that I was angry with him for the whole Bambi thing. I remember Christmas mornings where we had to wait for his coffee to brew before we opened presents, and the pot of coffee that always seemed to brew slower than on any other morning. And I remember being horrible to him as a teenager, which I still don’t understand. I remember hating him for no reason, and now, as an adult, I wish I could take that all back, and get to know who he was. Because I bet he was a pretty interesting dude. But anyway, all of these tiny moments I remember; But never once do I remember telling him I loved him or hugging him, and I will forever regret that. Even at the end, when he was dying in hospice care, I refused to show emotion or go sit with him and hold his hand. I hate that I did that, and I’d like to kick my own ass for it. But hopefully he knew that I loved him. And although I never really knew the person he was before I came along, or really who he was while I was growing up, I miss him every single day, and I hope he’s out there somewhere and he’s aware of that. And someday, I hope I can sit down with my dad, up there in matching recliners on a cloud, both looking fabulous and youthful, sharing some big-ass beers.
Oh yeah, and Happy Dad’s Day a little early to all the awesome dads out there. Including mine.
Miss you, Daddy.