Our day of white flowers comes to a close, as does our second Father’s Day without Dad. At the bottom of the hill where my father rests, a stand of wild white roses has rambled along the edge of the wood. Wild roses remind me of the rose shrub that stood at the edge of my childhood home. It only bloomed once a year – around this time – when it was covered in single yellow flowers, scented with the softest perfume. The extremely thorny stems made this a maddening rose, not even worth growing in my eyes, but every year it had a week or two of glory, and it signaled the happy arrival of summer, and my youth, where my Dad stood sentinel and guardian of all ills.
Father’s Day almost eluded me – I didn’t really feel much this time, and quite frankly almost forgot all about it until the social media posts started cropping up. I also understand why some people avoid the internet during such holidays after they’ve lost someone. Loss grants a certain humility and patience with other people, something you don’t fully fathom until you go through it yourself.
Dad has actually been subtly on my mind the past few weeks, almost subliminally so. It’s more of a gentle presence, something reassuring when I’ve had some moments of doubt and worry and stress. I found myself walking to the church during a recent lunch hour, the place where I’d go in a panicked state during his final weeks. It’s still a refuge, and I stepped into the hushed space grateful for the shadowy coolness, the possibility of something greater at work in a world that felt so messed up. I spoke silently to my father there, before I even spoke to God, and I think He understood.
