My father’s day

My father died on December 2, 1994. Nonetheless: happy officially sanctioned Father’s Day, Daddy! I can see you sitting at the kitchen table.
I can see your hands as you picked up the first envelope. Your expression as you read the card from one or the other of us gathered around. Your ho ho ho light response and that look that said “isn’t that something?”. “Thank you, Dahling.” and a kiss to whomever had penned that particular note. There was always a gift or two, over which you always made a fuss. And then we ate breakfast.

As Norman Rockwell a scene as could be. It still defines my understanding of “normal” and “home”. So I think the real meaning of Father’s Day - on whatever day one happens to be thinking about one’s father - is not what is being expressed to the daddy, but what is being felt by his children.
I always felt bursting. Proud to be his daughter. And hoping for French Toast.