Its 5.30 am.
I have woken up to the sound of laughing jackasses, a bunch of Kookaburras I call the bully boys. It’s dark, even dawn has not woken up yet. But the bully boys, the cats and I are all up.
I make a coffee. The sound of animals having their say about the beginning of the day is deafening. I sit down have my first sip of the nectar of the gods and notice it’s quiet…magic.
In this silence I begin to think. What does Father’s Day mean to me?
When we were kids we did not celebrate this day. My biological father – was a monster, a violent alcoholic who was to ‘sick’ to be a real father. I’m sad for him, he missed out.
I was 15 before I learnt what a real father was. Funnily enough this man who had no children of his own, stepped into the role willingly and with gusto. He loved me unconditionally and I returned that feeling, often shocked about how lucky I was to have him in my life for so long.
After nearly 40 years as my father He died at nearly 100. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to care for him in his old age, the way he cared for me in my often wild and difficult ages.
He was the first male to show me kindness and generosity of spirit. I’m not alone in feeling this – he was like the pied piper showing many children (and adults) how to live a productive and active life. Everyone who knew him benefitted.
I miss him.
But my luck doesn’t stop there, it’s as if the fates were making up for a horrific childhood. My father-in-law was also kind, and loving. If his son loved me then he loved me, nothing else mattered. I always knew if I needed him he would be there no matter what. We lost him two years ago,
I miss him.
This sounds sad, and in a way it is, living isn’t easy. BUT, how can I be sad? I have my memories of a long life with both these amazing men. Which leads me to my last few words on Father’s Day…
Thanks Dads.
KJS Writing 