DRayVan
10-16-2018, 06:10 PM
Dear Dad,
I’m sorry we never talked much, but we never knew what to say. “Hello,” “How ya doin’,” “How’s Mom,” and then, quickly you’d ask, “How’s the weather.” Our phone conversations were rarely deeper than this, lacking the intimacy that two friends enjoy drinking coffee at Dunkin Donuts.
I always wondered why. Was I the reason? Was it just your way toward me?
Growing up, I was amazed how you never met a stranger. You could talk to anyone, everyone. Yet we couldn’t talk. Say what was on our hearts. I always imagined I was the barrier, the one stranger in your midst you could never talk to.
Was it because you were off fighting a war when I was born? Or you worked long hours, providing for us. Maybe, it was because you were a sportsman--hunting, fishing, baseball, football--and I wasn’t. Heaven forbid it wasn’t because I was educated, and you weren’t through no fault of your own. Dad, you were the wisest man I ever knew. I regret never telling you so.
You were the greatest storyteller, bar none. For hours, you would keep me and the neighbors spellbound with your stories. Your skill always astounded me, Dad; how you could draw us into one of your stories as if we were there too. I always wanted to be a storyteller like you. I’m sorry I never told you how much I admired that God-given ability.
I remember the fun times we had together. Like the time--I was twelve or thirteen, I think--when we went fishing, and while we were rowing the boat across the river, a big fish jumped into the boat--or maybe an oar knocked in it, I don’t remember--but I do remember it was bigger than any fish we’d caught all morning. Mom thought we were pulling her leg when we told her the story. I guess she’d heard them all, and thought it was just another one of your tall tales. I don’t know if we ever convinced her, the fish jumped into the boat all by itself. I had a great time fishing with you, Dad. I’m sorry I never told you until now.
After years of being a father to my son, I realized the innumerable unspoken sacrifices you made for me I never acknowledged nor appreciated. The countless silent heartbreaks and disappointments you endured while I learned to spread my wings and go my own way. I never doubted you loved me--why else would you have sacrificed and endured so much--but toward the end of your life, when it would’ve meant to most to you, we couldn’t find the right words, couldn’t speak of our true feelings.
My son, your grandson, will come to this point in his life someday too. Hopefully toward the end of my life, we’ll have more to say than, “How’s the weather.”
From the depths of my being, I loved you, Dad, but I never told you how deep my feelings for you were. Recalling all our years together, I must have been the one who kept our relationship at arm’s-length, too superficial, not you. I’m so sorry for all the missed opportunities to speak from my heart, to tell you face to face.
Now, it’s too late for even one last phone call.
When I saw you lying there, still, lifeless, cold, the tears flowing down my cheeks tried cleansing me of years of regrets and missed chances but failed. Your ears were no longer capable of hearing me saying the words, “Goodbye, Dad, I really love you.” From the depths of my soul, I wished I’d said these words when your ears could still hear them. Your eyes were beyond seeing the admiration and respect radiating from my face, Dad. I regret not expressing my feelings.
Yet I hold to the promise we’ll see each other again when I leave this life. And when we meet, all barriers between us will be gone, and I promise not to mention the weather. I know you won’t either.
Your loving son,
I’m sorry we never talked much, but we never knew what to say. “Hello,” “How ya doin’,” “How’s Mom,” and then, quickly you’d ask, “How’s the weather.” Our phone conversations were rarely deeper than this, lacking the intimacy that two friends enjoy drinking coffee at Dunkin Donuts.
I always wondered why. Was I the reason? Was it just your way toward me?
Growing up, I was amazed how you never met a stranger. You could talk to anyone, everyone. Yet we couldn’t talk. Say what was on our hearts. I always imagined I was the barrier, the one stranger in your midst you could never talk to.
Was it because you were off fighting a war when I was born? Or you worked long hours, providing for us. Maybe, it was because you were a sportsman--hunting, fishing, baseball, football--and I wasn’t. Heaven forbid it wasn’t because I was educated, and you weren’t through no fault of your own. Dad, you were the wisest man I ever knew. I regret never telling you so.
You were the greatest storyteller, bar none. For hours, you would keep me and the neighbors spellbound with your stories. Your skill always astounded me, Dad; how you could draw us into one of your stories as if we were there too. I always wanted to be a storyteller like you. I’m sorry I never told you how much I admired that God-given ability.
I remember the fun times we had together. Like the time--I was twelve or thirteen, I think--when we went fishing, and while we were rowing the boat across the river, a big fish jumped into the boat--or maybe an oar knocked in it, I don’t remember--but I do remember it was bigger than any fish we’d caught all morning. Mom thought we were pulling her leg when we told her the story. I guess she’d heard them all, and thought it was just another one of your tall tales. I don’t know if we ever convinced her, the fish jumped into the boat all by itself. I had a great time fishing with you, Dad. I’m sorry I never told you until now.
After years of being a father to my son, I realized the innumerable unspoken sacrifices you made for me I never acknowledged nor appreciated. The countless silent heartbreaks and disappointments you endured while I learned to spread my wings and go my own way. I never doubted you loved me--why else would you have sacrificed and endured so much--but toward the end of your life, when it would’ve meant to most to you, we couldn’t find the right words, couldn’t speak of our true feelings.
My son, your grandson, will come to this point in his life someday too. Hopefully toward the end of my life, we’ll have more to say than, “How’s the weather.”
From the depths of my being, I loved you, Dad, but I never told you how deep my feelings for you were. Recalling all our years together, I must have been the one who kept our relationship at arm’s-length, too superficial, not you. I’m so sorry for all the missed opportunities to speak from my heart, to tell you face to face.
Now, it’s too late for even one last phone call.
When I saw you lying there, still, lifeless, cold, the tears flowing down my cheeks tried cleansing me of years of regrets and missed chances but failed. Your ears were no longer capable of hearing me saying the words, “Goodbye, Dad, I really love you.” From the depths of my soul, I wished I’d said these words when your ears could still hear them. Your eyes were beyond seeing the admiration and respect radiating from my face, Dad. I regret not expressing my feelings.
Yet I hold to the promise we’ll see each other again when I leave this life. And when we meet, all barriers between us will be gone, and I promise not to mention the weather. I know you won’t either.
Your loving son,