Eli kept insisting, so Dad says to Eli, do you know the letter “N” and the letter “O”? Put together, what does that say?”

Eli’s response to Daddy’s question was “Yes, it says “ON”!

Later in the day Eli and I were home. Eli wanted to go upstairs with me.  I didn’t really want to go upstairs. Eli told me “Let’s go upstairs NOW.  Let’s go upstairs NOW.” Sometimes I play around and emphasize the words “right now”as a commemoration to my father, who passed away four years ago.  When he wanted something done, he’d raise his voice and say “right now”.  This meant he meant business. So, now Eli has caught on to this. Funny how the generations are connected and the memories kept alive.  If only Dad could meet Eli and see the joy he brings.

It was a milestone in Dan’s life, a transition from school days to adulthood. When we were to say goodbye, I looked closely at his face. I would like to provide him with some good advice that would last longer than just here and now.

But not a sound came over my lips. There was nothing that broke the silence in our house by the sea. I could hear the sharp cry of the seagulls outside, while they circled over the ever-changing and roaring surf. Inside I stood motionless and silent, looking into my son’s green eyes with that penetrating look.

I knew that this wasn’t the first time I let such an opportunity pass me by, and that made everything even more difficult. When Daniel was a little boy, I followed him to the bus on his first day in preschool. I felt the excitement in his hand that held mine when the bus came round the corner. I saw the colour spread in his cheeks when the bus stopped. He looked at me – just like he did now.

What’s it like, Dad? Can I do it? Will I do all right? And then he boarded the bus and disappeared. The bus drove away. And I hadn’t said a word.

Some ten years later, a similar episode took place. His mother and I drove him to the university where he was going to study. On the first night he went out with his new friends, and when we met the next morning, he threw up. He was sick with glandal fever, but we thought he had a hangover.

Dan was ill in bed in his room when I wanted to say goodbye. I tried to come up with something to say, something that could inspire courage and self-confidence in him in this new era of his life.

Again the words let me down. I mumbled something like “I hope you’re better, Dan.” Then I turned around and left.

Now I stood in front him and recalled all the times when I hadn’t made use of those opportunities. How often has that not happened to all of us? A son graduates or a daughter is married. We do what has to be done at those kinds of ceremonies, but we don’t pull our children aside to tell them what they have meant to us. Or what they might expect of the future.

There was one chance I didn’t miss, however. One day I told Dan that the biggest mistake in my life was that I had not taken a year’s sabbatical after I graduated from university. I could have travelled around the world, because I believed that was the best way to get a deeper insight to life. When first I was married and began working, the dream about living in another culture soon had to be shelved.

Dan thought about it. His friends told him it was crazy of him to put off his career. But he quickly realised that it probably was not that bad an idea. And after he graduated from university, he worked as a waiter, a messenger, and an assistant in a bookstore, so he could make enough money to go to Paris.

The night before his departure, I lay twisting and turning in bed, puzzling about what to tell him. I couldn’t think of anything. Maybe, I thought, it wasn’t really necessary after all. Seen in the perspective of an entire life, how important is it that a father tells his son what thinks of him deep inside?

But when I stood in front of Dan, I knew that it really did mean something. My father and I were fond of each other, and yet I have never felt sorry that he never expressed his feelings for me in words, that I didn’t have a memory of such a moment. Now I felt my palms becoming moist, and my throat draw together. Why does it have to be so difficult to tell your son what you feel? My mouth was dry, and I knew that I could only say a few words.

“Dan,” I finally stammered out, “if I had the choice myself, I would have chosen you.”

That was all I could say. I was not sure he understood what I meant. But then he stepped towards me and put his arms around me. For a short while the world and everything in it disappeared, there were only Dan and me in our home by the sea.

He was about to say something, but my eyes welled up and I didn’t catch what he said. I only noticed his stubble pressing against my face. Then the moment was over. I went to work and a couple of hours later, Dan took off with his girlfriend.

It all happened a while ago. I think about him when I walk along the beach. Many miles away he may be hurrying across Boulevard St. Germain, strolling through the halls of Louvre, or having a drink at a café on the left bank of the Seine.

What I told Dan was clumsy and commonplace. It was nothing. And yet it was everything.

By David Zinman, source unknown.
Story taken from www.inspirationalstories.com

I just stumbled over your website and I can’t thank you enough for
sharing. I am 40-something married man who lost both his parents
similar to you.

My sweet Mama passed away in January of 2004 after a hard fought battle
with lung cancer, and very tragically, my Dad was killed in May of 2005
when a tractor he was working on slipped into gear and ran over him.
He really was very lost without my Mom, but wouldn’t let on to anyone,
so in a way my letting him go was a bit easier knowing he and Mama would
be together.

I am an only child and my wife and I were born and raised in a small
northeast Iowa town but have lived here for over 20 years in South
Minneapolis near Lake Nokomis. We are blessed with two children, of
whom were doted upon mercilessly by their late grandparents, they were
the world to them, and that’s much of my pain and sadness. Happily, I
inherited my family acreage and home there in IA so our visits back are
often to reconnect with my parents spirit and love, it is still like
‘going home’ to them both.

While I can embrace my own being a Father to my kids, I miss the ability
of picking up the phone and asking my Dad’s opinion or advice, my eyes
well with tears just thinking of that. I try to ignore the card shops
at this time of year, and Mother’s day too, tho this year I did send
cards to two favorite Aunts who were very close to my Mama.

Thanks again Deborah for letting me share my story. I will be checking
back !

Jeff
Minneapolis, Minnesota

All my love to you Dad in Heaven,
Deborah, editor of Little Love Tales

After Mom died, Dad and I took a trip together every summer. Just the two of us, father and daughter. This was especially meaningful because Dad was aging and we lived 2000 miles apart so a week with Dad, undistracted from other family members or from work was a treat.

Our first destination was a cruise up the Mississippi. We boarded the steamboat in St. Louis and noticed that we were one of the youngest people on the cruise! Even Dad, at 73 looked young! We sat in rocking chairs on the deck, the warm breeze blowing on our faces, admiring the lush green trees lining the mighty river. A jazz band played in the background.

On the deck we met John, who went to a singles dance for senior citizens at his local church, met his wife, and asked her to marry him two weeks later. It’s John’s first marriage at 65. Then there was Jane, a teacher from Little Rock, Arkansas who danced with Bill Clinton decades ago at a school fundraiser. Sometimes on the deck Dad and I sat quietly, reading.

At lunchtime we stood in line for the buffet. People asked if Dad was my brother! Amazing for our 38 year age difference! Dad filled his plate with bread, meats, and cheeses to make a sandwich. The most important ingredient to any sandwich was mayonnaise. Dad loved mayonnaise! Anything else between two pieces of bread was extra fillings.

After lunch we docked at Alton Missouri. This small town was home to dozens and dozens of antique shops. Dad, with little interest in shopping or antiques (although he’s almost an antique himself) walked and walked in and out of shop after shop. We walked up the hill, down the hill, and through the old town. We walked all day. It was the longest time I ever spent shopping with Dad. He was a good sport to come along, simply to spend time with me.

Each day blended together like the last, until seven days passed. On the seventh day we reached Minnesota, the top of the Mississippi, and my home, Minneapolis. Dad saw my house for the first time and met my two cats, Coconut and Coffee Bean. Coconut sat on his lap and purred. The two became quick friends.

This was the first of many trips together, and our last. Dad died a few months later from being hit by a drunk driver while crossing the street in his home town of Sacramento California. What made this trip special was our time together, the two of us. I had grown from the teenager embarrassed to be with Dad to the adult cherishing the time together. It was the beginning of a yearly tradition that ended shortly after it began. This Fathers Day I will celebrate by cherishing warm memories, remembering Dad, and being proud of who I have become.
In honor of my father,
Deborah, editor of Little Love Tales

My child,
I carried your ultrasoound picture with me since the day I received it,
And dared to love
a child I was yet to meet.

My child,
I carried you in my arms at last,
and gazed in helpless wonder at your face,
And dared to lose
my heart to you.

And now, my child,
a dream fulfilled,
a prayer answered,
a family created,
I have dared to become
a mom.

And so now,
my precious child,
I shall carry you
home.

Copyright Jill Work 1998
Sent by Lisa Weinstock of Northridge, California in honor of her first Mother’s Day with her son Jackson.

Mother is a word called love,
and all the world is mindful of
That the love that’s given and shown to others
is different from the love of mothers.
For mothers play the leading roles
in giving birth to little souls,
For though small souls are heaven-sent
and we realize they’re only lent,
It takes a mother’s loving hands
and her gentle heart that understands
To mold and shape this little life
and shelter it from storm and strife.
No other love than mother love
could do the things required of
The one to whom God gives the keeping
of His wee lambs, awake or sleeping.
So mothers are a special race
God sent to earth to take His place.

Helen Steiner Rice, Gifts of Love