I called my dad to wish him Happy Father's Day. He sounded good for a week shy of his 80th birthday. I tear up every time I have a conversation with my dad, wishing I had the minutes back over the years that I tossed aside.
My dad lives over 700 miles away and I would be lying if I said I didn't wonder if each conversation would be our last. I savor every voice inflection, play on words and wittiness my dad is so gifted at.
Thinking back over the years of the times that rise to the surface of my memory are those of spending time with my Pop. The time I was 11 and we sat on the sofa for a good thirty minutes playing tic tac toe on my Ziggy erase-board, or the time when I was around seven and had gotten a groovy floppy hat for our fishing & camping trip to Wyoming only to lose it the first time we stopped at a river to fish. Somehow by the time we had made it down stream to the bait shop he had gotten me another one...and it was dry. Or the time I visited him and fell sick; he laid beside me all night holding my hand, I can still feel his age softened hand in mine. The afternoon I spent in his garage workshop making a beautiful church bird house together is a moment pressing in time for me or the time we shared conversations so special I dare not repeat for risk of losing the way they resinate in my mind.
My dad. My authority hero. I call him 'Pop' because it fits his personality best. Happy Father's Day my dear.
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