My dad passed away and was buried during the first 2 weeks of August 1987. So for twenty-four years, the first 2 weeks of August have been a time of deep reflection for me.
My dad and I had a close bond while I was a little girl. He could do no wrong in the eyes of his only daughter.
But from the time I reached puberty until his death, our relationship was contentious. Dad was a proud, unyielding, old school type of guy—common for his generation. That clashed mightily with my budding feminism throughout the 1970s and ‘80s. We bewildered—no, pissed one another off—regularly.
But it’s during this anniversary time that I think about how much I’ve evolved and matured over the twenty-four years he has been gone; how I’ve made peace with the man who used to rile me up. I know I loved him and I know he loved me before I even knew what love is. If he were still alive today, surely Dad would have matured and evolved as well, don’t you think?
Remember that old saying about most of life’s traumas? “One day you’ll look back on this and laugh!”
Dad, I’m laughing my head off at our former silliness. I bet you are laughing too.
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