F*cking Perfect Father’s Day

It’s not a secret that our relationship is something for the ages. The memories flood my brain the way tears are flooding my eyes. A teacher reading the last line of a retreat letter you wrote to me, “How did I get so lucky [to be your dad]?” I remember it like it has just been spoken. A letter to me at Sheppard Pratt saying that your new favorite song was “F*cking Perfect” by P!nk because the lyrics were really about me and did I realize it was so?

The memory I am reminded of most of you is, alas, a run. You know how traumatic it is for me to write about this topic and it just speaks to how much I love you, because it must be spoken. There was the crunch of the snow that’s octave changed as we went from inches to feet deep. Then the taste of it, as we became dehydrated. The winter sun waning over the forest. The searing pain of my calf muscles tearing, all in good fun, as we finally went downhill. And the feeling that you were proud of me beyond measure.

You may have heard the term used in regard to illness (or in my case injury), “Last good day.” It’s having a great day in good health and not realizing it was your last good one before the illness or injury took over. This was my last run with you. 

I used to think what I would not give to do it over, but now I’m so happy looking back on it. It was perfect. Fucking perfect.