Dad’s day

I woke up early Sunday and hit the road damn near at the time I was aiming for — a feat for me — so I could make it to the parents’ around noon, as my dad had to leave for work at 1:30. We wanted to squeeze in some Father’s Day time in that small window, and we eked it out with great aplomb, I have to say. There was crying. The good kind. After all, it had only been a week earlier that my sister was in bad shape at the hospital and our entire world looked like it was going to be turned upside down. I could see the relief and comfort in both my parents’ eyes: All their chickens were once again under their roof. They are no more happy than when that happens. We gave my dad his gifts — some straw hats he likes to wear in the garden, a movie, a book, cards (his big present won’t arrive until this weekend; it’s some kind of manually propelled go-kart thingy) — and then my sister presented him with a DVD she had made the night before featuring pictures of the family fathers. It was so lovely. I turned around to see my dad sobbing. “You have maid my heart soar with joy,” he said later in a text message once he’d gotten to work. (My mom tittered at the misspelling, but we figured he gets a pass since he’s basically the best dad ever.) He kept saying how blessed he was to have kids like his. Which is funny because we keep learning again and again how blessed we are to have a dad like him.