Father's day: it's started

I started it with my usual meditations and a walk in the park. My first memory of my father is being at my Grandmother's house waiting for him calling from Lybia where he was working at the time. The memories I have collected until now are all memories of wait and of absence. All that I had of him were objects left behind, like the razor that I am using as symbol of this celebration and my mother's reassurance that not only I had a father, but that he was the best father in the world. Seeing him was an event that needed celebration, preparation and waiting, a surprise to be put in my heart and stored for the future.
One memory that I particularly cheerish are the late night walks with the dogs, me and him alone in the night, me hanging from his arm as usual. Sometimes we were silent, sometimes he explained to me his vision of life and politics.
I am always very tactile with him. He is the only one. My mother did let me touch her, but carefully because I was bigger than her. But with my father, I have the constant need to touch me, to reassure myself that he is really here, that for a few hours I have been given the gift of his presence. This tought is making me want to cry. But this explains also because I am so good at waiting, sometimes even when I do not need to wait, because he taught me. I remember tables richly preepared and left waiting, sometimes until the morning after when sometimes you did find them untouched. I have to wait for him, that's what my life was all about.

Goodnight

I am shattered. Certain kind of healing work is very heavy. But it is worth it. I remember being shattered also last time. And a bit cranky too. So it will be an early bed. And I'll speak to you tomorrow. Thanks for your help sweetie, as usual.