Father’s Day.
Here we are, my dogs Honey and Belle and I, females all. Mr. Palmer, our Betta fish, though male, is childless because of his ill temper.
My son is a father, but he is not here, trapped as he is in the bonds of schizoaffective disorder.* He is 600 miles away in a personal care home, where he exists with the assistance of mental health professionals and pharmaceuticals.
His daughter is not fatherless, adopted years ago by her stepfather. She has a daddy, and I thank God for that.
Clint was a father, had four children with his first wife, but as we all know, he died last year just days short of Father’s Day.
Me? My daddy died when I was six, so I’m accustomed to this day when people celebrate what I have never known. I do have this photo of him during World War Two. Handsome, with sweet eyes.
I guess I can count the father bird whose nest of babies just flew away. Every year, a pair of wrens nest in an old floor lamp in the garage, preventing me from giving it to Goodwill.
No, we are not complaining. We, the two dogs and the fish and I, are escaping the 106º heat index outside by holing up in my room, ceiling fan creating a small breeze for us, watching the U S Open golf tournament and being happy for all the fathers and sons and daughters we see there.
*schizo-affective (also schizoaffective)
adjective (of a person or a mental condition) characterized by symptoms of both schizophrenia and manic-depressive psychosis.
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