(crossposted from FB)
Recently, one of my sisters told me I was like my dad in how much I loved her. I have never felt so thrilled in my life, because although he was as flawed as the next person my dad expressed love and joy so powerfully that sometimes I felt knocked back by it: his adoring gaze, his laugh at something one of his daughters had said, the way he said the word ‘daughter’ as if it was the most beautiful word in the world.
Everything good about me, I got from him.
(Including various goofy looks, one of which I’m posting now.)
This year, 11 years after he’s dead, I’m finding joy in my friends’ posts about how great their dads were.
He died far too soon and too suddenly, and that always makes my heart hurt on Father’s Day. But he also saved my life. And made me who I am. And today, shouting down the pain I feel, is a tremendous, deep gladness that I was so lucky to have this man as my father, even for such a short time.
He lit up every room he entered. He was always the last to let go of a hug.
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