A hand-made card.
Simple.
Colorful.
Beautiful.
Great attention given to every exacting letter of “Happy Father's Day” and “Dad.”
But the card is not mine.
Those beautiful shapes, letters, and words are for someone else.
Someone who doesn't know the pain of losing their child to another.
One who doesn't know what it's like to stare into an empty room for months wishing that the perfectly intact mess strewn about it's floor showed some sign of movement by it's purposed occupant.
One whose only connection to author of those words stems from marriage to her mother.
Not once have I ever tried to make her refer to her step-mom by any title afforded her mother. She has but one mom. But somehow, someway, I'm not so fortunate. Not even today.
No markers met paper for me... her dad.
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happy father's day
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