My father has been gone 17 years and for many years, Father's Day didn't have any particular sting anymore. But this year, with mother gone as well, it was a difficult day. Sundays are always hard for me, since I spent them with her, but this Sunday, this Father's Day, was a bit of a wrench.
I tried to keep busy...cleaning, planting a pot of lavender seeds that my son and her girlfriend gave me at Christmas. (The seeds said they were good until 2015, so I wasn't in a rush.) Scrubbing places on the carpet where the cats had barfed. (Have I mentioned these are THE LAST CATS I'm owning? When they are gone, it's libre feline for me!) Picking up things that were out of place. Trying to fix a leaky fountain. Calling my aunt. Writing a blog. Downloading a book on Kindle. Stuff.
For a few minutes I could push away the feelings and get absorbed in the activity of, oh, say, deep cleaning a spot on the carpet or mopping up the spill after I dumped the fountain.
But it was still a hard day.
I think it was the memories, mostly. Memories of my father. Memories of the father of my son. Memories of memories of memories. When my feelings are raw and ragged, like they are today, the memories, even the pleasant ones, come with glass-shard edges that leave little cuts that seem painless at the time, but the tiny bubble of red sorrow eventually rises.
But tomorrow will be another day.