If a thousand days are like a day to God, I suppose the days we count worthy of celebration are tiny pebbles in his palms.
Shiny all the same.
So how do I celebrate Father on Fathers’ Day? Is it through the music of the human tongue? Or sparking a tiny flame in his heart? Do I plaster an everlasting smile to his face?
Yes, yes. But how? How do I start? Where do I? Do I kick off with simple words: Happy Fathers’ Day, Thank you?
Err, no, no, too light, too simple.
I will stir the words slowly, gently, till they become tender, soothing and delicate like his soft songs on ivory keys, piercing like the shrill of brass, till they pull his heart to dance like pulsating leather skins. Maybe words like ‘Why do the stars imitate you?’
How do I celebrate my father on Fathers’ Day? Do I praise his arms, flailing and flailing and flailing for the freshest of bread? Do I praise his feet still standing after fierce silent battles with an earth that dips its hand in the flesh, throws ashes and thorns and demands you keep living? Do I praise his palm for covering my eyes when needed and at other times, opening them to realities too delicate for a young mind’s eye? Do I praise his retina for those images of thorns and pitfalls in places where I merely saw a fresh harvest of green? Do I praise his throat, his voice, for extinguishing fires? Or do I press my ears to his chest to hear thoughts of me?
A tender, thump, thump, thump for me?
How do I celebrate my father on Fathers’ Day?
I would spoil him with words. By instructing the clouds to resist the sun for something brighter – to weave his name in capital letters onto the sky for all to behold. By teaching stars to dance for who they imitate.
When Father’s hair becomes a full field of grey, maybe I would pluck a strand or two for my children’s eyes and all who care to see. I shall say, Do this in remembrance of me, in remembrance of my father – we share the same breath. This is my beloved father in whom I am well pleased.
This is my beloved father in whom I am well pleased.
If a thousand days are like a day to God, I suppose the days we count worthy of celebration and the birthdays ending in zeros that we excitedly mark are tiny pebbles in his palm.
Shiny all the same. Like today. Like whom innumerable stars imitate – my father.