He tells me stories, too. And I love them. I cling to them. My dad is a masterful storyteller. In that way, I’d like to be like him when I grow up.
Sometimes when it’s over, I wonder if he even cares about the things I talk to him about, but he keeps calling, and I’m so thankful for that. I’m especially touched of late because I’ve seen–sometimes from a distance and sometimes right here in my own home–what happens when dads don’t call.
I’m trying to think back to when I was a teenage girl, trying to remember more about those calls. I’ll be honest, I can’t imagine I was always fun for him to talk to. I was moody and sometimes even angry. Certainly, I didn’t appreciate his calls as I do now. Frankly, I can’t imagine that I was so charming that he couldn’t wait to call… but he called. He called and he listened to me.
For nearly forty years, he called. Tonight, to be honest, given all that I’ve watched my children go through in the last six months… that feels almost superhuman.
Thank you for calling, Dad. I love you.