You would think someone who’s made their living as a writer could find the right words. Turns out grief is a hell of a writer’s block.

The June after my father-in-law passed away, my wife told me she couldn’t look at Father’s Day cards. It would be my responsibility from that point on to pick out Father’s Day cards for my dad, our brothers, etc.

My brother and Bessie’s brothers didn’t get Father’s Day cards from us this year.

While I was at the grocery store last week¹, I was picking out a plant for Bessie, just a little something extra for her. I glanced to my left and there it was, a long display of Father’s Day cards.

I took my plant and left.

¹With my mask on, of course.

It’s the day after Father’s Day as I write this, 12 weeks and a day since my father passed away. Bessie and I spent the day with my mom, and in the afternoon we went to the cemetery with my brother and sister-in-law and nephew, to visit my Dad’s grave and to share some thoughts on the man.

The thought struck me later, after we got home: it’s like he’s not really gone, but of course he is. I saw him in his casket; I helped carry him to the hearse and then to his final resting place; I’ve stood at his grave.

But we didn’t get to say goodbye to him, not really.

Three of the last four years, I was on the road for Father’s Day: Seattle in 2016, Philadelphia in 2017, outside of Boston in 2019. So Dad would get a phone call from his youngest son on those days since I couldn’t be here in person for Father’s Day.

Those who know my Dad (or me) probably wouldn’t be surprised to know that we weren’t the greatest phone conversationalists. I mean, we did OK, it’s not like we sat there and just grunted at each other until Mom took the phone back. But still, there wasn’t a lot of deep conversation.

It was the same in person, I suppose. It’s not like we didn’t talk at all, but when we would visit, we would talk about work and politics and TV shows and whatever else came to mind.

So, yeah, maybe there wasn’t always deep conversation, but it was deep after all.

There are things we say without explicitly saying them, things we do without having to point out that we do them out of love. We know what we’re getting at without getting at it. But while I’ll cherish those things we said over the years, and the things we did for each other², I imagine I’ll always regret not saying, “I love you, Dad,” more than I did when he was here.

²Him for me, I think, more than me for him. But that’s what dads do.

So one more time, for the record: I love you, Dad.

And while I’ve posted this elsewhere, why not revisit the playlist Dad would have wanted for his funeral service, had we been able to really have one except the pandemic made it impossible to get more than immediate family into the room. You’ll notice Dad loved Pink Floyd: