My Tuesday Dad
In a couple of months, my dad will have been gone for five years.
The sting of his passing still strikes fresh, on those days I selfishly wish he could be here, when I want to pick his brain about life, get his opinions and advice. Have him on my team.
But also, same as the very morning we lost him, I am thankful for his release.
My dad was kind-hearted and he talked with his hands and there were certain deficiencies with some of his abilities. He dealt for so long with severe health conditions.
The same can be said of this man I see at my workplace every Tuesday morning. Oh, there are enough prominent differences that I see his individuality, but there’s also a little of my dad in there somewhere. The heart, the hands, the conditions.
Some mornings, when he says, “Hi, young lady,” in the same tone my dad would have, I reply quickly and rush off, before he can notice my watery eyes. Other mornings, we talk about the weather or about his family, and I am grateful for those occasional times I can pull away from my introversion for chit-chatting.
No exchange is profound. There is never a strong undercurrent of my dad himself. It’s just that the similarities bring me some small comfort, a glimpse of who my dad was—and still is in my heart—and that makes me happy.