Father’s Day

On Father’s Day, I think about people who have lost their dads. I read their anguished words, and wonder what it would feel like to have the kind of relationship with your father where — when he died — it left a hole. A hole that was once filled with thick-armed hugs and bumpy truck rides and laughter over sticky doughnuts. A hole carved out where he once stood.

If I could, I would swallow their grief, consuming and carrying it on their behalf. I’d devour so many cherished memories that I’d become round with them. And my father, standing with casual acquaintances, would explain how he doesn’t speak much to his daughter, because she is sphere-shaped. And they would nod sympathetically, because if they had sphere-shaped daughters, they wouldn’t want to speak to them either.