|Happy happy Father's Day xo|
My dad is not the man I think I know.
He is a mystery - a much cherished, little understood ideal.
Or what makes a joke funny.
Or how many raisins make a bran muffin perfect.
He is why my sons and I have
blue eyes and
long legs and
flaring bouts of righteous indignation.
He is a model few men since have measured up to.
My dad is not a photo I can find of us together.
Those are a few frozen moments - not even the most important ones.
He was most often behind the camera, both making and preserving the stories for us.
My Dad is not a memory of tangled fishing line on a riverbank.
Or a pink Jeep on a hillside.
Or holding hands to pray around the dinner table.
Or car trips of just us and miles filled with quiet or deep talks or Sunday School songs.
My dad is not a monolith or bunting made of adjectives.
He is superlatives and caveats and contradictions in balance.
He is as soft and as strong as leather.
He is "oh, Shan" and quick tears and being heard and "that's enough."
I have worn proudly all my life the honour of being his daughter.
I have rarely felt up to the role.
I have known to my bones he feels otherwise.