Dad

 My children never met my father. He died over a year before my wife and I welcomed our first born into the universe.

And while I have tried to keep my dad alive with stories of who he was and what he meant, what he means, to me, those tales end when my sister and I are no longer here. What then becomes of him?

I fear his immediacy will disappear. The sense that he is still able to shape thinking, to influence decisions, to have a say in the outcome of an event in which his position is persuasive, or at least instructive. WWMDD, what would my dad do, no longer part of the lexicon.

There is a sadness for me in that. While I know that one day people will speak of me in the past tense, I do not feel any urgency that humanity be guided by me in my absence. But I believe there will be a great loss when my dad's voice fades.

I understand there is a tendency on my part, and on my sister's, to wash away any of the foibles that were part of dad's makeup. The areas where one could argue he fell short of perfect. But do I really have to recall cranky moments in traffic, or any other peccadilloes? For me, and for so many like me, who are today paying homage to our fathers, we can be forgiven if we only recall the best that was offered.

Whatever good my children and my grandchildren take from me is because I am no more than a vessel passing on the lessons I learned at my father's knee. My best but a shadow of his.

And while my grandchildren will never tell stories about my dad, maybe all is not lost, if what he instilled in me somehow takes root in them. If what I found so breathtaking, what I tried to remember and to emulate, can become part of their makeup.

If that occurs then maybe my dad will continue to exist even after the immediate memories are no longer. At least I know that is the fervent hope of my sister and me on this Father's Day.