My Father's Daughter

"There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself." - John Gregory Brown

I am my father's daughter. I realized that as I was driving to pick up a couple of Jacob's friends who called and asked me to provide taxi service for them this morning. It is what my dad would have done. When anyone asked for a favor, he was always ready to drop everything and race to the rescue.

My dad would have turned ninety today had he not left us eighteen years ago next month at the tender age of seventy-two. It is hard for me to picture my dad as an old man. Instead I see him sitting in his living room chair, drinking Coke and smoking his ever present cigarette while cheering on Jean Beliveau to score for his beloved Montreal Canadiens. Or dancing in those God awful plaid pants with the white belt that were so cool in the 70s. Or digging in the garden as he turned the plain suburban yard of our family home into a work of art.

I talk to my dad all the time. When I'm uneasy or scared, I ask him to stay with me, and he does. When I meet someone I know he would love, I invite him to shadow me so he can share in the joy of those interactions, and he does. I often talk to him about Jacob and I know he shares my pride at the fine man his grandson has become. He is gone from my physical world, but not from my spiritual world. I miss seeing him but I feel his presence with me always.

Happy Birthday Daddy! I love you very much.