Today is my first Father’s day since the birth of my son. That, like so many other things during this first year of Morgan’s life has led me to reflect on the complicated relationship I have with my own father and what this day means to me. I think that for most people who lose their father at a young age, and particularly sons, this day has always held a special breed of dread. This is the day of Father/Son picnics, the day when none of your friends are available to go do something else distracting with, the day for awkward invitations to go do something with someone else’s dad. It was hard to avoid not only the reminders of terrible loss and grief, but also that as a fatherless child you are an outsider.
For me there was a ritual of remembrance associated with Father’s day that always felt awkward to me, if only because it was such a jarring change to go from the 364 days I spent denying and avoiding the memory of my father to reveling in it for one. I was never able to make the transition completely. I always felt like a tourist, simply going through the motions rather than actually participating. In many ways it made me uncomfortable in my own skin and unsure of what I was doing. As an adult petty squabbles with my family eventually stopped me from going, and I was perfectly happy to stop thinking about my father entirely.
It’s safe to say that after his death my entire relationship with my father has been defined by avoidance. Avoiding his memory, avoiding the pain of his death, avoiding coming to terms with what happened, and avoiding anything that might make me have to rethink that strategy. The birth of my son has been the first event in the whole time since then to force me to change. For the first time I have a painful reminder of my own father that I cannot and would not avoid, and a powerful impetus to reconnect with all those elements of my life that I have systematically cut off over the years. It is agonizing clawing open old scars and having to seriously consider for the first time the shape of the wounds beneath. Not only my own scars, but the damage done over the course of my scorched earth campaign to cleanse my life completely of anything that brings those memories too close to the surface.
This first Father’s day with its complimentary phone calls and cards, its focus on what is rather than what isn’t, is in sharp contrast to the past 22 years of Father’s days. Today I sat on the couch, my boy cuddled in close. He was half asleep, watching Monty Python with me and giggling at the cartoon segments. With his tiny head snuggled tight under my chin and his tiny hands spread wide across my chest I felt contentment and deep love. It gave contrast to the poignant ache that still lives in my heart. For me this day is no longer simply about longing and loss long past, now there is abundance and hope for the future.
What this means in the broader sense of things I don’t yet know. I’m in a transitional state here, with the past decidedly behind me but the future as yet unclear. I know soon the meaning of Father’s day in my mind won’t be my sole, lonely creation. My children are too young now to have understanding or input, but that will change before I know it. I’m glad, I don’t think I could remake this day on my own. I relish the thought of two new sets of eyes, unclouded by the scars of grief, providing vision and a path forward.
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