For decades I faithfully created a special and memorable celebration for Father’s Day. Now six years after his death, it’s an empty spot on the calendar—like a tooth you’ve lost. It doesn’t ache as it did in the beginning; still, you keep running your tongue over it.
Grief is an odd duck. You’re never prepared for when or in what form it’s going to slam you. On a recent visit to Foggy Mountain Forge in Sooke I came upon a madly grinning skeleton riding a rusting bulldozer.
Instantly memories of Dad on his beloved cat filled my mind and wrenched my heart. Clearing brush. Clearing snow. Pushing. Pulling. Leveling. Logging. Winching. Fixing–constantly fixing–the old thing.
What a jolt of joy to imagine him in bulldozer heaven having a grand old time, and the occasional street of gold with cat tracks.