It’s Father’s Day. I watch from behind as you and our youngest jog, side by side at the park, while the orange fire dips behind the lake, yawning and waving goodbye. Goodnight, sun.
The lake is glass; its eyelash trees flutter upside down on a mirror surface, beauty surreal, even for Podunk.
There is music. Cicadas call to one another from tree to tree (a buzz-clicking relay) and crickets join in on the choruses. Peace. I breathe it in and out, smiling.
Texas summers. How many have we spent together? Thirty-something. And the years roll like gentle swells, and we ride astride boogie boards, clasping hands and laughing, don’t we?
And sometimes crying, dear one, and we hold on through the choppy parts, forgiving and forgiven, falling and dragging up, trying again and again. Not an option, fingers parting, and ours rest safely there.
I look at you, man amazing. And I thank you.
To say I love you is trite, and lame, but true. Can’t there be another way to say it? Maybe not.
I love you. (Just that.)
On this Father’s Day, and on every day.
Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.
Genesis 2:24, NKJV