failing my father
It’s Father’s Day and so I reminisce about him. So many joys and good times to remember. Only a few bad things; which, of course, I tend to count a greater number of deficiencies than he does.
I don’t like to think about it often, but periodically I remember that in some ways I have failed as a daughter by not providing the quintessential experiences that a father is supposed to have with, or concerning, his daughter:
- He never warned off a young man, coming to pick me up for a first date. You know, the “I have a shotgun and a shovel; I don’t think anyone will miss you” warning.
- He’s never gotten to listen to some man request his blessing to marry me.
- He will never walk me down the aisle.
- He’ll never have grandkids to celebrate holidays and birthdays with, or tell terribly exaggerated stories about my childhood.
I always regret these things more when I remember the things I’ve denied my father – even more-so than my mother – no matter how unintentional.
Of course my father only rarely brings up these things to me, and it’s always with a wishful sadness for things that have never happened for me, rather than him. And that is the way of a parent. But it reminds me… and the hurt never goes away.
