Dad’s Day

"On the other hand – she wore a glove."

One-liners he was good at.

With his walking stick (didn’t like anyone calling it a cane) he’d announce as he’d enter the barbershop with his stick raised pausing at the door frame, “This is a stick up!”

He’d amble in closer and look directly into the eyes of the guy cutting the hair and throw another one at him.

“Looks like you got rid of the lice!”

That was dad.

Every year on May 5 at 5:05 p.m. we gather together and raise a glass.

My younger brother and I were with him when he passed. He left with a smile on his face. At the cocktail hour of course.

Even though it’s been six years I remember it like yesterday.

The Priest at the nursing home where he’d spent the last few years of his life had handed me a parking permit earlier in the week.

It was dated May 5.

That day, my sister-in-law had showed up with split pea soup. Dad’s favourite.

We’d all been at his bedside for days.

Hours before he took his last breath a dear friend had shown up with a plate of deviled eggs. Another one of dad’s favourites.

His day had come. 

My face turned to a pout. I took the phone to notify the closest.

Sobbing uncontrollably I emptied my heart in the wake of his spirit.

Dad always knew what to say and when to say it.

He’d crack anyone up. Not everyone got it mind you.

The family enjoyed a meal and a toast tonight.

Our way of celebrating Dad’s day.