My Father's Day

 The sun woke me up.  It was a school day.  Why weren't we all getting ready?

Why was everything so quiet?  I found my mother sitting up in her bed.  Aunt Doris was there. Why?

Very softly, mother said: “I have something sad to tell you Joanie.  Your father died in the hospital last night,”  I was eight years old.  None of this made any sense.

 I’m old now and, looking back, I see that moment as a preview of a life in which things are not expected to make much sense. And, I suspect we all live with one moment or another that keeps tapping us on the shoulder. Grabbing our attention. 

I’ve missed him every day.