My grandmother always calls me on Father’s day to tell me she’s thinking about me.  Most years I don’t know the difference between this and any other day, except for her call and the copious social media tributes.  This year I’ve had my dad on the brain more days than not, and almost every day over the last few weeks.  It’s been 18 years since I’ve seen him, but his absence has never felt more present. Today was hard.  But maybe it has to be hard to move forward.
I knew that this project would force me to deal with some of my heaviest baggage, but it was only recently that I really comprehended that in order to be a compelling story, I would at least have to attempt to make contact with him. I’ve been stalling for months. Lack of skill and money are excuses; I have been afraid, and the idea of interacting with him presents a whole new set of fears.  I tell people who are practically strangers about my plans, as if saying it aloud over and over again will absolve years of pain and give me courage. I smile and laugh when I talk about things that make me upset (probably fooling no one), but this morning, alone with my feelings, I could do neither. Sure enough, a text from Grandma comes: “Thinking about you today! Hope you are having a good day!” and my eyes and nose leaked salt water and goop -- and it felt great. If nothing else comes of this endeavor, at least I’m learning to be more honest with myself.Â
