Father's Day

It's late. Far too late for her to be up. Five hours, maybe? Not enough sleep but at some point the red wine and baba ganouj took over from the desire to crawl into bed. She survived it, though. Eight months of dread, knowing that this day would inevitably come and she'd be inundated with all kinds of reminders that he was really gone. A day for him and he was no longer here to celebrate or be celebrated. Her first instinct this morning was to call him at home but then she remembered. Every day, it's a re learning, a remembrance of what is no longer here. The new normal. Still a daughter yet now an orphan. Jacquie tried to console herself with the fact that at least she didn't have to suffer the annual ritual of yet another family style restaurant rotisserie chicken dinner with dear old Da to celebrate Father's Day but right now at this very second she would give anything to be sitting across from him in a naughehyde booth complaining about how the fries used to be thicker and the dipping sauce  is obviously canned. Arguing over apple pie or rice pudding, deciding if hockey playoffs were on the docket or a rerun of The Great Escape and Bullit for their Steve McQueen love in. Then he'd start to reminisce about the '68 Charger fastback with the wrap around red rear racing stripe that he loved so much but had to sell after her mom left because raising a kid on your own was suddenly a costly enterprise. For all the grief and guilt and guff, Jacquie still waxed nostalgic in ways that surprised herself. Sentimental, maybe. Lonliness, absolutely. More than anything, a sense of loss and regret for the endless years spent disconnected, hurt and angry with each other, unable to articulate their disappointment with their separate yet equal situations. Jacquie reaches into the shoebox of VHS tapes and pulls out her worn copy of Pappilon. A tribute, in her own way, to her dearly departed Da.

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