Remembering Fathers
It is a quiet Sunday morning in June. I am sitting on the porch. Various species of birds are happily twittering away in the trees in the garden. Occasionally, I hear the sound of children at play. Someone is having a discussion with another in what sounds like Turkish to my ears. Their voices carry across from several blocks away. A bird perches on a branch of the rose bush nestled against the porch. As long as I stay still, the bird looks at me curiously. For a while we observe each other silently, then, as if it has satisfied its curiosity, the bird takes flight.
I lean back on the chair and close my eyes. It is Fathers Day. I am painfully aware that it is the fourth one that Peter is not here to celebrate with us and us with him. I do not allow myself to cry. I just take in the sounds and sensations of the day. It is a Sunday, just as it was three years and eighteen days ago, June first. It was one day before he passed away. We were sitting on the porch, as I am sitting now, enjoying the same sights and sounds I am now. I look across to his seat and imagine him sitting there. I see his sweet kind face smiling at me. I smile back. ‘’Happy Fathers Day, you most beloved of husbands. You are so painfully missed.’’