In keeping a blog there is a fine line one must walk between personal and too personal for public consumption. I’m unsure of what to say on this day that will keep me from stepping over that line. Maybe I should refrain from writing anything at all. . .
We arrived in our new home state last Father’s Day, listening to Rick Jackson’s Country Hall of Fame’s tribute to dads along the way. I cried then over my husband’s dedication and love for our daughter and for the life we’d loved and left just two days prior.
Of the 32 I’ve lived so far, the year that has passed since last Father’s Day has by far been the hardest. When we arrived at our new home it was with the expectation of it being a temporary stop on our way to someplace better–someplace more in line with our interests, values, and desires for our life together. We left a dozen boxes packed up, ready and waiting for the time to come when we could check-out of these living arrangements and this life.
A year later, those boxes still packed, we have made the decision, conscious or not, to try to create a life for ourselves here. We will buy a house, have a baby, and find new hobbies. We will make a concerted effort to develop a social support system–people to come to our new house and drink from those 14 wine glasses Aaron told me a year ago not to bother unpacking because there would be no one to use them.
I boxed up those glasses, dusty from lack of use, a few days ago.
On this Father’s Day my tears are again for the life we left behind–for the happiness, camaraderie, and contentment I haven’t felt in a year. They are again for the exceptional father I am fortunate to have in my daily life–the one who’s gotten up night after night in the last few weeks for water, potty and cuddles. But this year they are also for the father to whom there will be no phone call, only a wish in my mind for a happy Father’s Day and an uncertainty as to what meaning those words hold after death.
On Friday, July 15th, five years and one day after we closed on the home that still holds our hearts, we will unpack those glasses and toast to a new one. I will remember that it was not love at first sight for Missoula and me, that I was cold and lonely for quite some time, and that those who became such an integral part of our world started off as strangers. Then I will choose to hope to find the kind of happiness, camaraderie, and contentment we once knew in the coming year. And though the tears may again fall next Father’s Day, my life, like those wine glasses, will be filled to the brim.