06-21-00
The first day of summer. The phone rings and I answer it, "Good afternoon, Younkers Salon." It is my dad - not the biological father in Argentina, but the loving dad in Cedar Rapids - chiding me for not calling him on sunday like I was supposed to have. He also wants a haircut. I rack my brain as to why I said I would call him on sunday, apologizing profusely for forgetting. It must have been something important, and I am angry because I cannot remember what it was.
And then it strikes me, sunday was Father's Day. I never promised to call, I simply neglected to call and tell him that I loved him that day more than any other. Bah. Everyday is Father's Day. A phone call or a card or an ugly tie doesn't make one day any different or my love any deeper. The days that I love him more than any other are those like Christmas or Thanksgiving or my birthday, because those are days a father and daughter are supposed to share, regardless of biology. Those are the days that we share because we love each other, not specifically because the calendar provided by Hallmark tells us to, but because our hearts do.
