Father’s Day has really sucked lately.
The first one after he passed was so acutely painful that I spent the entire day tightly wound up in an inconsolable ball of hate, determined to avoid with every fibre of my being television, restaurants that served brunch, department stores that carried power tools, other humans, and that depressingly horrific online doodad, social media.
Does it infuriate anyone else when people tweet “Happy Father’s Day, dad” to a dad who doesn’t even have Twitter? I digress.
I also endeavoured to steer clear of all public places—sports stadiums, golf courses and parks–which I imagined were all chock-a-block full of family BBQs and bustling picnics, celebrating dads young and old.
I did my best to drown out memories, too—like the time he taught me how to throw a curve ball, play Greensleeves on the organ, BBQ a steak, and patiently sit in the passenger’s…
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