Father's Day

Yesterday, my dad came over to my house while my girls were at their paternal grandparents' house. He came over bearing tools and the capability to help me tear out my kitchen cabinets. I saw him at the front door and I was sort of shocked at how little my dad looked. Short, slim, old. Briefly, I felt sad, but brushed that feeling away like a cobweb in my face. It was the first father-daughter time we've had in decades, probably. We worked in silence, me taking out the cooktop stove, him taking out the garbage disposal and sink plumbing. He liked my supply of tools in my Bucket Boss organizer. He also said that I do good work on this sort of thing for a girl; these are both great complements from my dad, so inside I felt all shiny.

When my girls came home, Char had made a card for her dad, who she did not see. I don't know what he was doing, but he didn't visit with the girls. Maybe there was an emergency in the dog food aisle. She also took $1.00 of her allowance, made her granddad take her to the store, and bought her dad one of those chocolate-covered cherries wrapped in red foil, the kind you can buy just one of, near the cash registers ("Because Daddy LOVES those!"). I can't bear to look at the card, because I know what's in there. Every year, Char makes a card for her dad, and on the inside is a drawing of her holding hands with him. There are birds flying all around, the sun is happily shining, and bees are buzzing around. My heart breaks for her every year.