When we were young, my sisters and I always made Daddy breakfast in bed on Father’s Day. At sunrise, we would slip out the back bedroom window – as if my parents didn’t know – and pick field strawberries for Daddy’s cereal and wild roses to line his breakfast tray. Daddy’s deep voice chuckled when awakened by shushing giggles bearing gifts of sustenance and yet another tie. While he savored the sweet strawberries and fragrant flowers, we girls hugged his delight.
It was also on Father’s Day that I spoke with Daddy for the last time. His voice, tempered by long illness, rose again with the vigor of hope, but his death a few day later was not a surprise. Now, when I think of Father’s Day, I choose to remember the uncomplicated alpha and omega: the crunch of shredded wheat and Daddy’s final words, “I am honored to be your father.”