|A public art work I came across while walking around in D.C. yesterday. It has a sign that says something along the lines of "Father's Day, Gone Fishing."|
I honestly tried not to think about my Dad when June 17 rolled around, because I miss him too much. Luckily, yesterday I was nowhere near old photo albums, or even paying that much attention to social media. Instead, I was walking around D.C. with friends looking for a good place to grab brunch, nursing a mild hangover and enjoying how beautiful the day was.
I got sunburned and I was late getting back to where I live out in the mountains of Maryland, but I don’t care, it felt good to be careless, mindless and unaware of time passing.
Does time even matter anymore, when we’re carefully curating every moment of our lives? Don’t we supposedly exist forever, in tweets, posts and Pins? I can’t bear to post one of those faded, scanned images of my Dad and me as a Profile pic, like so many people do when this annual celebration of dads rolls around. I know his presence didn’t last ... only until I was 15 years old. I don’t want to go back to that moment, and what it felt like to lose him, ever again, visually or otherwise. It's not that I begrudge people who need that on Father's Day. It's just that I can't relate to it, and I don't want to.
What I want to do instead is live every moment like it’s the day I decided his death wouldn’t hold me back in any way. And I’ve been doing that a lot lately ... traveling, doing art shows, writing anything and everything I want, running half marathons. Dancing in a club somewhere, where time appropriately stops, as it should, because I get lost in all that good music and the people around me, just existing in life, bright and flashing and full of possibility.