Just Me and My Dad

Dad,

I’m sorry we never talked much.  But I never knew what to say.  “Hello”, “How are you doing”, “How’s Mom,” and then, “How’s the weather,” seemed to be the depth of our phone conversations. 

I always wondered why.  Was it me, or was it just your way?

Growing up, I was amazed that you never met a stranger.  You could talk to anyone, everyone.  Yet we couldn’t talk, say what was on our hearts.  I guess the barrier was me; I was the one stranger in your midst you never could talk to.

Was it because you weren’t there when I was born, off fighting a war.  Or that 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 that it was because I was educated, and you weren’t through no fault of your own.  Dad, you were the wisest man I ever knew, something I could only dream to aspire.  I regret never telling you so.

And you were the greatest storyteller, bar none.  For hours you could keep me and the neighbors spellbound with your stories.  That always amazed me about you, Dad, how you could draw a person into one of your stories like we were there, too.  I always wanted to be a storyteller like you.  I’m sorry that I never told you how much I admired that God-given ability.

I remember the fun times we had together.  Like the time long ago when we went fishing, and while we were rowing the boat across the river, a big fish jumped into the boat – or maybe, it was knocked in by an oar, 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 stories.  I don’t know if we ever convinced her that the fish jumped into the boat all by itself.  I had a great time that weekend: just me and my Dad, fishing.  I’m sorry I never told you that until now.

After years of being a father to my son, I’ve come to realize the number of silent sacrifices you made for me that I never acknowledged nor appreciated.  The countless heartbreaks and disappointments you endured as I learned to spread my wings and go my own way.  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, Dad.”

From the greatest depth of my being, I loved you, Dad.  But I never told you how deep that love and respect were; I kept it too superficial.  I’m so sorry that I’ve missed the opportunity to tell you face to face.

Now, it’s too late. 

I finally did said, “Goodbye, Dad, I love you” to ears that could longer hear from a heart that wishes I would have said it sooner.  But I have the hope that we’ll see each other again someday, and I promise not to mention the weather.

Your loving son.