Father’s Day

Dear Dad,

Sunday will be Father’s Day, our second one without you. Mom, G3, and I are in Mattituck this week. It appears that the Strawberry Festival — which had been canceled last year due to COVID — will take place this weekend. We drove passed it today and it made me very sad. You never liked the Strawberry Festival until G3 came along. He was about four years old the first time you took him and you bought him the bracelet so that he could go on an unlimited amount of rides. Oh, he had a blast, and you had even more fun watching him. After that, it became part of our Father’s Day weekend tradition. It may have been your special weekend, but what made you happiest was making G3 happy. On Saturday morning I would make you waffles for breakfast and then we’d get in the car and drive to the festival. But not this year, not ever again. If I were to go to the festival with G3, I fear the weight of your absence would crush me.

Going to the beach is hard enough. We went yesterday, and again today, but it’s not the same without you. G3 went swimming and he and I played frisbee and we had fun, but it’s almost as if everything is now in black and white. Without you, there is no color. Everything seems bland.

Mom is selling your house. The house in Mattituck that you loved. That I love. It is the one place in the world that I have always felt safe — happy. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve escaped to this house when I’ve felt sad, miserable, or desperate. What will I do without it? Where will I go? Yesterday, Mom started going through the things in her bedroom, packing things she wants to keep and throwing away things she doesn’t need. Today, I mowed the grass and it took me a really long time because I couldn’t stop crying. And G3 has been terrible. He’s cranky and sarcastic and all he does is complain, and I’m willing to bet it’s because he too loves this house and doesn’t want to lose it. When you were alive, you treated him like a little prince and this was his palace. First he lost you, his hero, and now he’s losing the place that holds so many wonderful memories of the time he spent with you. Tomorrow, the real estate agent is coming by to assess the property. I can’t be here. Neither can G3. I know it would be easier for Mom if I stick around, but if I stay, I will fall apart, and then I won’t be any good to anyone.

Getting the house in order to sell will take some time. Mom asked me if I’ll be able to come out for three weeks in August to help. I said I would do my best to be here as much as possible, but three straight weeks will be difficult. Now that real life is resuming, G3 will have to be in New Jersey periodically for taekwondo. I suggested to Mom the she ask my brother to come help for a week or two in July. Like me, he isn’t working. Unlike me, he doesn’t have a child.  Nor is he emotionally attached to this house — not even a little bit. Therefore, he’d be able to get more done in a more efficient manner. But Mom got mad when I pressed the issue. She won’t ask him because his two dogs make coming to New York difficult. I understand some people — like my brother — love their dogs as if they were children. But dogs aren’t sentimental. His dogs aren’t missing you. His dogs won’t be devastated when this house gets sold. His dogs wont be emotionally explosive. I really don’t understand why I’m expected to help sell a place when the selling will break my heart, but my brother gets absolved of any responsibility. Is it just because I live closer? I wish you were here. If you were, we could go back to being happy.

Last year, everyone said things get easier with time. But I’m missing you more this Father’s Day than I did last year. I can’t even watch a commercial advertising Father’s Day without breaking down. 

I miss you!

PS — An essay I wrote about missing you, titled “Lent,” has been published in Caustic Frolic, and online literary magazine supported by New York University. Having graduated from there — twice — I really wanted them to publish something of mine. Last year, when I first heard about them, I submitted an essay and they rejected it. But I tried again this year, submitting a piece that I had originally written for my blog. When I realized it worked well as a stand alone essay, I took it down from the blog and sent it to them. I guess they liked it. You can read it here: http://causticfrolic.org/nonfiction/lent/