Today is Father’s Day, but for me it’s just another day. Not because I want it to be, but because it has to be. When everyone else makes the obligatory call to dad, I do nothing. I have nowhere to call.
My father died in March 1977. I’m now more than four years older than he was the day he was shot while sitting in the passenger’s seat of his friend’s pickup. A mindless game of quick draw with their handguns and an accidental pull of the trigger and my brother and I were sentenced to a lifetime of wondering how our father’s presence would’ve impacted our lives.
I don’t have children yet, but my brother has a 3-year-old son, the same age we were when our dad died. Knowing what we missed and not wanting The Boy™ to miss any of it, my brother dotes on my nephew with all the attention and love every child should be so lucky to receive. He doesn’t spoil The Boy™, but he embraces every moment he shares with The Boy™ as his best moment ever.
The Boy™ has what we lost. He has a father to share every joy and every pain, no matter how big or small, monumental or inconsequential. If I ever have children, I hope I can do the same. I want to pass on to my children what my brother has taught The Boy™: although he’ll never meet his grandfather, he got the best possible father because of it.