Father’s Day is less than a week away. My first Father’s Day of hopefully many that I will celebrate with my amazing husband and our fantastic family and not my Dad. Four months after his passing I confront my first Father’s Day without Dad. I overly appreciate my fortune in creating the family I adore and remind myself that it could always be worse. And it could. I’ll take this lot, with all of it’s baggage. But it still remains a great pain. And this is my kaddish to bear.
Every year we’d don our sunscreen and hats, posing for photos in actual film.
“take another,” my dad would scream eager to use the camera roll.
And we’d go out to the strawberry field on the side of the highway doing the work of immigrant farmers who would become a significant presence in our community.
And then we’d take our bounty of strawberries home in the metal pots and plastic vegetable bags – those thin ones from the produce section – to save the cost of the cartons the farmer would gouge our family. We’d make strawberry jam, strawberry rhubarb pie, strawberry pancakes and strawberry presents. We’d load up in the car and drop off strawberries for friends. This was our Father’s Day and we went strawberry picking.
As I got pregnant and remained pregnated for three non consecutive Father’s Day we would still visit and eat strawberries.