not my father, but my children’s father – doing what he loves.
my father died when i was 6 or 7. i don’t remember, i was kinda young. he hadn’t lived at home for almost two years. he was in a nursing home, succumbing to the brain tumors that were eating his mind. i vaguely remember visiting him. what i do remember, and can easily recall, is the time before then when he would give me whisker tickles under my chin when he caught me up to give me hugs.
my next father, step-father, was my uncle before being my dad. my father’s half-brother. he was pretty awesome in his own right. he loved to take road trips, he loved my mother with his whole being, he used to sing about the big green dragon with the thirteen tails, and big rock candy mountain. he was fun and took me through my remaining childhood years. when i was 13 he was diagnosed with emphysema. it took him when i was 15 or 16. i can’t remember. i blocked it.
my last father, step-father, had to deal with a heartbroken teenage girl who didn’t want him invading her family. i was belligerent and obnoxious to him, and mostly kept myself shut in my room when i wasn’t sneaking out to be with a mistake of a boyfriend. he was a champ, though, patient for the most part. he got through my issues and spent his remaining, fairly healthy years with my mother in a mountain cabin home. he’s been gone six years now, and i miss him.
go hug your dad. and thank him. even the worst dads must have done something right at some point.