Dear Dad,

I understand you a little better. It came to me during a firework show last Tuesday night. I was sitting there on the blanket with my two boys. The younger one was on my lap, the top of his head with his tight curls tucked under my chin. The older was leaning against my side with his hands curled around my forearm. They were enthralled and "woh-ing" along with everyone else. It felt good... through the first half.

I think I was smiling when it hit: a slap of loneliness, a sudden pain that came from wanting to share this moment, to share these family feelings, and this night with someone who would know and understand in a sideways glance. The boys were there. That should have been enough. It's going to have to be enough.

It amuses me, Dad,--well, sometimes it annoys me--that you want to call and gather everyone together for each special occasion. Why does everyone need to be invited? Why can't we enjoy small and intimate? When I call you, why do I have to be on the speaker phone? As an introvert, I like small groups, and I don't want to talk to a whole room! (This is me whining.) On the other hand, I am trying to say that I think I understand, now, some of your ache and drive. It comes from a sense that the gathering is missing Someone. Someone who is Not Here should be sharing this moment with Us.

The fireworks were crackling. The music was booming and picking up pace. The crowd was clapping and hooting all around. To me, though, it was distant, muted, and slow. Instead of the bright lights of the fireworks, I saw the dark black between them. The world fell away. No, I fell from it, except for my two boys, and that unfilled space. That's when I thought of you, Dad. I wanted you there, too. With a sideways glance, you would see my sadness and the empty space, and you would understand.

I love both you and Mom,

Me.