I don’t remember a single father’s day celebrated or acknowledged while dear old daddy was alive. We never did those kind of sentimental, silly things then–we don’t now. These hallmark holidays just have a special kind of ring to them these days, an extra hollow-ness in the bells that we only hear in the rings now that we listen.
Forced to face in full the knowledge of the person he was, and the person I was, and the person I am now. The understanding of things as they are, and things as they could be, and–easily the most difficult to shoulder–things as they could have been had I only had more appreciation, had cellular configurations aligned slightly other than the pattern they deigned fall, had we been lesser people and lesser creatures unworthy of the preparedness for parting. But we were ready, and so he left.
So it must be, for so it was. You left. I want to say “No, no, you’re wrong, we are not ready, we were not ready. There is still so much there is you have yet to give” but we all know these false begging illusions are just that, false pleadings with naught to give. There’s nothing there to give us meat to our bones, no nourishment from which we have not picked the feast of life we have still to ensnare. There are other bones now from which we must scavenge, other deaths upon which we must turn now so we can feast evermore.