Father’s Day

“I don’t remember my first Father’s Day,” my husband says. Our children play and shriek at his feet. He looks at me over the head of our oldest, our daughter, with a half-smile on his face.

I look at him for a minute, then I remember. “We went to the cemetery,” I say. “With my mom. It was the first Father’s Day without my dad.”

***

We go grocery shopping on Sundays. We all go; The Poo gets a cookie, The Babyman likes to eat baby Goldfish crackers before we pay for them. I stash the open sack in my diaper bag, making a mental note to remember to pay for it when we get to the cashier.

I am in the baking aisle, laughing as The Babyman stuffs a handful of his snack in his mouth. I fish a few out with my finger, admonishing him to take small bites. I look for a chocolate cake mix for my husband’s Father’s Day dessert request.

He is at my elbow suddenly, a small grin on his face. In his hands is a big bag of Hershey’s Miniatures. He hands them to me.

“For Mama,” he tells The Poo. “To celebrate Father’s Day.”

“My dad loved these,” I say, smiling.

“I know,” my husband replies. “That’s why I picked them out.”

I burst into unexpected tears, and he holds me close to his chest. “Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I didn’t expect that.” I wipe my face and we finish shopping.

***

“What are they doing today,” my husband asks.

“Planting flowers on my dad’s grave,” I say.

“Do you think they’re having dinner together?” he asks, sounding wistful.

“Yeah, I imagine so.” I reach for the high shelf, and shove a can of tomato puree behind a glass jar of peanuts. My husband puts the Hershey’s Miniatures in our Waterford biscuit barrel, a remnant of our wealthier days and a sort of inside joke. I look at the leaded crystal jar and see my father standing in front of my parents’ sofa table, picking out the plain Hershey’s Bars.

“I wish we were there,” I say.

***

I didn’t expect to miss him today. But I did.

Me and my father, 1976