Kindness

Today is Father's Day, and the weather is glorious.  Sunny, warm, not humid.  This morning I watched church online, did mysore practice, had coffee then headed out to Trader Joe's to get flowers for my Dad, Harold L. Howard, Sr.  He passed away 14 years ago, just before Father's Day on May 30.

Each year on Father's Day, I pick up a bouquet of red roses (Dad's favorite) to take to his grave site.  For many years this ritual was difficult because his death left me raw and wide open.  In recent years, finally, his physical absence has become easier for me to accept.

A few months ago, I was at the car dealership having just negotiated the deal as planned on my new car.  While waiting for the 20-something sales associate to return from her manager's office, my boyfriend pointed to an empty chair that sat facing us in the cubicle.  "Guess who's sitting right there watching you?" he asked.  For a moment I was a surprised by what he was suggesting although we both have lost our Father's and share similar spiritual backgrounds.   In the moment, Dad's easy grin, his steady gaze through gold rimmed bifocals, and his nod of approval materialized in front of me.  At 46 years old and 14 years since Dad's passing, I was transported back to all the moments  that had been just like this one.  My mouth eased into a smile and my gaze softened on the chair.

Fast forward to this morning at Trader Joe's.  I picked out the perfect red rose bouquet and took it to the register.   The cashiers in there are very friendly; no matter who I get we talk like neighbors.  This one was no different and he asked how I was doing as I handed him the roses.  "Fine thank you.  Just buying flowers to take to the cemetery to my Dad."  The cashier stopped what he was doing.  "Wow.  You're the first person who told me that today. Everyone's been buying flowers and no one's said why."  I smiled at him and wondered what was strange about that, then went ahead and swiped my credit card.  The cashier stood there.  "I wish that there were something more I could do for you."  I looked at him.  "Your kind words of acknowledgement are enough."  He looked downcast and we stood there when I almost felt a nudge as if Dad said, "Come on Sugar, show me your new car."

"Thank you." I said again, the cashier smiled, I smiled back and left.  I don't know what made that young man pause, and our exchange stayed with me during the drive to Ft. Lincoln Cemetery.  As soon as I got there, I made a beeline to the funeral home ladies room for some paper towels on which to write this long overdue entry.

Dad you continue to find ways to inspire me.  Thank you also for allowing me to experience unexpected kindness on your behalf and for being with me wherever I go.

Missing you madly, still.

Love,

J