Dear Dad

You worked hard. You worked long. Way more than a 9 to 5. You did it for us. So we wouldn't be without. But it was at the dinner table where we were without. Without you. It was you that was missing when I looked to my left. Wondering where those set of overworked hands were that should be passing me the mashed potatoes. Mom would hold your plate. Looking up at the kitchen clock. The same clock that hangs on that wall to this very day. Hearing that familiar tick. You could set your heart by that clock. Round and round the hands would turn. Waiting for you to come home. Dinner is getting cold. Mom instructs us to go ahead and eat. "He will be home soon" she reassures 3 small heads. We finish. We help clear the table and still the front door hasn't opened. The hours are passing. The sun is setting. I count the minutes as they go by. My bedtime is growing near. "Put on your PJs and brush your teeth, Dad will tuck you in."

I pull-on my fuzzy red footed pajamas. The ones with the Ferrari look-alike racecar embroidered on my chest. I search for the white snap that fastens tightly just under my chin. That white snap that I could never see myself to close. The plastic white bottom feet that make my toes sweat. Plastic white bottom feet that cause me to slip and slide as I run from the kitchen to the living room chasing Jen. As I brush my teeth, I look in the mirror. The reflection of my eyes in the mirror are a reflection of you. I have your eyes. I have your mannerisms. Even at such a young age, these truths are evident. I belong to you. The girls are sent to bed, but Mom allows me to stay up to wait with her. Despite being the youngest and needing my rest, Mom understands the importance of a son needing to see his father after a long day. Even if I only get a few moments to help unlace your boots and hear you ask "how was your day buddy?"

Finally the knob turns. I jump up from constructing my fort out of wooden blocks and exclaim "Mom, he's home!" I rush over to the corner of the living room where I keep my wagon-full of wooden building blocks. I dump the remaining blocks out. They scatter aimlessly across the floor. I grab the tethered blue and white rope attached to a worn-out wagon and run to greet my Superman. "Dad, race me! Race me!" You are barely inside the door before I bombard you with play requests. In my haste, I stumble. Those slippery footed PJs get the best of me as I fall to my knees. I am a clumsy child that seems to trip often. Both knees already worn thin from previous incidents. Tonight I tear a hole in the fuzzy red covering. Carpet burn on my knees. Red and raw. Just a small trickle of blood. I don't cry. I stand up as if nothing happened. You smile and put your hand on the top of my head asking if I'm ok. A hand that nearly covers my entire being. A hand that is comforting and protecting. Kind and powerful. I barely notice I have patch of skin missing from my knee. A warm drop of blood beginning to trickle down my shin. All I notice is that you are finally home.

"Let him eat dinner first David and then he will pull you in the wagon" - Mom has to be the mediator. I oblige and plop myself down next to you on the couch as Mom hands you your dinner plate. "How was your day buddy?" It's the usual question, but one that I long to hear. One that Mom permitted me to stay up to answer. An open question that works well because it allows me to talk your ear off while you listen (or pretend to listen?) as you eat. How could a little boy have so much to say? My life consisted of catching fireflies, hitting whiffel balls and running relay races with my sisters in the backyard. Because these things were important to me, you made them be important to you. Thank you for that.

You may of worked long hours and you may not of always ate dinner with us as a family, but you were always there. Really. You never missed the big things like my basketball games. You were in my corner for every boxing match. You've been in my corner throughout life. You helped me night in and night out with my algebra homework. You were the one that taught me how to drive a stick. How to train a dog. How to throw a perfect spiral football. How to tie a necktie. You were the first one dressed and ready to roll on the days of both my HS and college graduation. Although at times you may of scolded me and been a little hard on me, you always made sure to praise me when I did well. They say it's the little things in life that count and if you weren't around for a little thing called dinner on a Wednesday night, that was ok by me. Because in my eyes, the little things you did like pulling me up and down the hall on that wooden wagon after a 12 hour workday, that was huge! Sitting with me and listening to me tell you all about how I caught more fireflies (or as we nicknamed them "lightening bugs") than the neighbor kid, that was huge! It didn't matter that you weren't there to pass me the mashed potatoes. You made me feel like my life mattered to you, period. That's what really counts when a son thinks of his Dad. Because of what you did then, today I know I matter.