Happy Father’s Day.
To all those men who were brave enough to take a woman by her hand, walk beside her and say: I do—and mean it each and every day, and when his children are born say it again to her, with more conviction, and through late night illnesses taking turns holding his children, pushing them on swings, throwing them high in the air and catching them before they fall, cooking sausage and gravey and making grits on Sunday mornings before church, combing out snarls in hair that looks like wrestling snakes, and kissing boo-boos on wounded kness after teaching them how to ride a bike, the horrible looks after he dispensed discipline, the trust he put in each of them when handing them car keys for the first time, the numerous recitals, plays, and games where he watched like a silent sentry appraising with his eyes and feeling pride and wondering: how could all this good be a part of me? The man who taught his son to be a man by the way he held his mother’s hand and never let go, and escorted his daughters one by one, foot by foot, down an aisle trying to hold on, one last time, before he gave her away to another, younger man that shared her love. For the man of few words who said a lot, who prayed on his knees and stood tall, who opened his hand and waved goodnight to one and all without regret. Flowers grow above the ground where his ashes lay at peace, to remind us that amidst the thorns, his beauty blossoms like a scarlet memory, for each and every child he left behind to remember him and know its a Happy Father’s Day, indeed!