I can still hear your voice in my head. I can hear you, but it’s more difficult to remember how you sounded. Enough time has passed that even though you, in some way, speak to me, I’m finding it harder and harder to recreate the rhythm and character of your voice.

Losing the sound of your voice makes me more aware of how close I am to my own end. Your voice keeps me grounded. Your words point me down the path and call me to a higher standard.

You once told me, “Don’t let your mistakes defeat you. Everybody makes mistakes. Own them. Learn from them. Make the necessary changes and move on.”

You told me a lot of important things.

I know in my head that these are your words. I know that I did something stupid that made you speak them to me. I can’t remember what I did. I don’t recall where we had the conversation. But every time I make a mess of things I replay those words in my head, and I think of you.

I think about the times when I came to visit with you. I always wanted your advice whenever I faced some major challenge in my life. We sat under the shade of the pecan trees in the back yard. The old metal chairs sitting a few feet apart. You asking me what was on my mind. Me stumbling over awkward words, feeling incapable of making good decisions.

You guided me through the rough spots in my marriage. You listened to me go on and on about why I felt the need to make a career change. You took an honest interest in every struggle that I faced.

Mostly, you just listened. And when you spoke, I listened. You never told me what to do. At least, I don’t think you did. You simply gave me the clarity I needed to make my own decisions.

I miss that. And believe it or not, I still need that. Almost every week, I have this impossible urge, wishing that I could drive up to the house and sit in those same chairs out in the backyard with you. A thousand times I have thought, “Sure wish I could talk with Dad about this.”

I was talking with Scott the other day. We laughed about you. We laughed about the time he lost your boat motor at the bottom of Lake Talmadge. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I was complicit because I was responsible for borrowing the motor in the first place.

You should know that he still feels bad about that. It’s been over fifty years now. Two goofy boys. A stupid mistake.

He told me something I didn’t realize, though. He said that, over the years, he would drive out to visit with you. He enjoyed talking with you. Like everybody, he loved your stories and tales. But every time he’d go to see you, you’d give him grief about that boat motor.

He was at a point in life where he could buy you a new boat motor, and many times he offered to replace that old motor for you. But you’d never let him.

Scott said, “I think he enjoyed holding it over my head. He didn’t care about the motor. Never did. He just didn’t want to give up the right to rag me about it.”

That was just like you. Things were never as important as people. And nothing was better than a good-humored laugh at the expense of somebody else’s mistake.

In my heart I’d like to think that you’re still a part of things down here. Every now and then, someone will tell me how you’d be proud, or how you’d laugh, or how you’d carry on about the way my life has turned out. I want that to be true, even if it makes me sound a little selfish.

I couldn’t have fully appreciated it at the time, but I stepped into manhood through your watchful care. You seemed to know everything and to have answers to everything when I was coming along. I was frustrated by that for a while, because I felt so dumb. But at this point in my life, I know that there are still things you could teach me. There are so many things I’d like to run by you.

So many questions.

What was it like for you to be a parent of adult kids in their 30s and 40s?

How did you handle the transition to retirement?

How did it affect you when you started attending the funerals of your friends?

Did you ever think about moving to the mountains?

Why can’t life be as simple as “lefty-loosey, righty-tighty?”

It’s complicated here, Dad. More so than I thought it would be. I always thought that as I got older, life would get easier. Surprise! I was wrong. But I’m guessing you know that already, which is exactly why I still think to myself, “How would Dad handle this”?

I don’t mean to make it sound like everything in life is tough. Far from it! So let me shift gears a little bit.

I’m surrounded by grandkids. Eight of them. Got you beat, fella! They’re the best thing God ever gave an old fart like me. I know now why you and Mama used to come down to the house so much. A small taste of energy. A few hugs. You’d make them giggle. And then you’d go home.

Four of the eight are on loan from Marion’s side of the family. I wish you could meet her. I know you’d like her. Pretty sure you’d be telling her all your old jokes and poking fun at her. She’s the kind of gal you can tell to “pull your finger” and she’ll think it’s funny. Classy. Sassy. No glitter. Just a good heart wrapped in a big smile.

I’m thinking about all of this . . . I’m thinking about you because Father’s Day is coming up. And for some reason it just seems important for me to remember you; all the help you gave me when I needed it; all the experiences that we shared together; all the encouragement that you gave me; and all the conversations that we’ve had, both past and present.

I can’t help but feel inadequate as a dad when I think about how strong and unchangeable you seem to be. Death has not diminished the effect you have on my life. This is how sons see their fathers.

Even so, I’m smart enough to know that you were never bulletproof. Sometimes grounded. Sometimes lost. We’re all incapable of being perfect and all knowing fathers. The best we can do is to love those that are near to us. We overlook the disappointments and embrace the changing seasons of life. And when it counts most, we lean on the only perfect Father we’ve ever known.

You did that.

Which is why I still talk to you. Two chairs side by side. The shade is cool, and the breeze is just right.

I can’t thank you enough.