It’s almost Father’s Day. My father is dead. Last year Father’s Day was the actual anniversary of his death. This year it’s a day later.

When he was in the hospital two Father’s Days ago, my sister said, “Well, we don’t have to get him anything this year...” and we laughed softly, as if it was some big relief.

I feel achy and tired again. Men in their seventies who are gray and good humored are peopling the streets. I turn around at the restaurant where I work, and there is another dad, old and twinkly eyed, ordering a bowl of soup with his grown daughter. My hand shakes as I pour their coffee.

How come I got so lucky to have such a nice dad? How come he was always there, with his big hand on my shoulder, tearing up over my speeches or concerts or plays? Telling me how proud he was of me?

How come I have a full catalogue of his jokes in my head?

He calmed...
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3:21

First sentence:
It's almost Father's Day...

Last sentence:
We will make as much noise as possible, jumping off the raft.