Even though it may be considered "just" a Hall.mark holiday, one created by card companies, and other money-making ventures, Father's Day, like Mother's Day, still seems to rankle, at least for me. Even in the present-day "cult of Mommy," reminders are everywhere that we should recognize our fathers, grandfathers and those who take the responsibility of fatherhood seriously.
I'd like to take this moment to recognize the fathers in this alternate universe, DBL. Fathers whose sons and daughters live only in their hearts, in a deep private place men are not often "allowed" by society to discuss. Men who suffer along with their partners, wives, girlfriends at the loss of their children. Men who made agonizing decisions, along with their partners, wives, girlfriends. Men who still ache for their missing child.
I'd like to recognize the fathers who have no living children, but who love them just the same. Men who will not get lovingly drawn pictures and cards, carefully lettered in crayon, or phone calls or emails, men who will not receive funny or sappy greeting cards in the mail. Men who stay in today, stay away from parks and lakes and maybe restaurants, in an effort to avoid reminders of happy family moments, moments that perhaps they imagined long ago. Moments they fear they may never get to experience.
This is a bit sappy, sentimental, perhaps. Well, that's how I'm feeling today, thinking of my husband, C, sleeping in today. There's an iced coffee and a donut waiting for him in the fridge, the NY.Times Book Review on the coffee table. It's not much, but hopefully it's a little bit of comfort.
We will hide away today, eating sweets and perhaps watching movies in which things explode. Once again, this day has hit him a bit harder than he anticipated it would. He wrote about this stupid holiday last year at Glow in the Woods; this year hurts, too. Perhaps with more bitterness.
Elm City Dad just wrote a heartwrenching piece on GITW about grieving, how his pain and loss, though certainly as deep as his wife's, are experienced and expressed in ways different from the ways she experiences and expresses them. I cried as I read it, hearing so much that my husband has expressed to me about how he's been feeling and dealing with our loss.
So, here's to the unsung fathers. The ones who don't get to take their kids to the park or to little league or to the first day of school or for a walk so they can have "the talk." Here's to the fathers who have buried their daughters and sons, who have held their wives, wrenched with pain and tears, trying to stay strong.
Here's to the fathers who love their children by holding them in their hearts, instead of in their arms.