Father's Day

Our relationship isn't anything special. We did what most have done in the past and most will continue to do in the future. We weren't the first to create our own kind of waltz, where he was the lead and my feet, too small to follow and understand his movements, perched on top of his. I certainly wasn't the first to cry to songs that talked about getting older, getting married, and being given away. We weren't the first to practice the best way to field a ground ball or catch a pop fly without dropping it (you use your other hand to guard the ball once it's in the mitt). He wasn't the first to co-coach my softball team and to always encourage me, even if I purposely ran slow after getting a hit so that I could eat my melting Italian Ice in the dugout. He wasn't the first to clumsily fumble with my hair when it was long (too long), trying to understand how exactly a braid came to form (this usually happened when my mom was out-of-state). He wasn't the first to concoct strange snacks for me after I got home from school, the most notable (and delicious) being saltines with butter and jelly and his english muffin pizzas. He wasn't the first to cry as he danced with me to "Butterfly Kisses" at my Sweet 16, when my feet were too big to sit on top of his.

No, he wasn't the first to do any of those things - and it'd be foolish to think that he'd be the last. But somehow, it feels as though these memories are ours and ours alone. We both know that there are thousands of other fathers and daughters who have had done the same things, only in their own particular flavor. Yet these are ours. They do not belong to anyone else.

I often wonder how many memories are buried deep in the cranial labyrinth of my brain that I've since forgotten. I wonder if I'll remember them as I get older, or if they're destined to collect cerebral dust as they fall to the wayside. Perhaps it doesn't matter whether I can recollect them all or not; perhaps the point is that they're there, they exist, and maybe that is enough.