Father’s Day arrives whether you’re ready or not. The store displays go up two weeks early, ties, grills, “World’s Best Dad” mugs and you walk past them like nothing’s wrong, because nothing is wrong, not really. He’s just not here to buy a gift for.
You notice who still calls to ask if you’re okay. You notice the people who forget, too, and you don’t hold it against them, because how would they know June has this shape now.
Some years you’ll see his handwriting on something, a report he wrote, a check stub, a name on the back of a photo — and the day cracks open for ten minutes before it closes again.
That’s most of what enduring looks like. Not a single hard moment you brace for and survive. A hundred small ones, scattered through an ordinary day, that you didn’t see coming.
Most years it gets easier to carry, not because the missing shrinks but because you get stronger arms.
And there’s a strange comfort in the fact that the day still catches you off guard. It means the love hasn’t worn down to nothing. The ache is just what’s left standing where he used to stand.
I miss you Dad.❤️