The Father I Don't Know

     I’m the blondie in the stroller with my sister, pushed by the father I don’t know.     
     Early one morning my mom came into my sister’s and my bedroom with red eyes. She handed us tiny cups of grape juice and quietly announced, “Daddy’s in Heaven with Jesus.”
    The night before at age thirty-nine, he’d slumped over from a sudden sharp headache and died. A brain aneurism, we think.     Ask me my age then, and I would have held up five fingers.     
     Ask me today how many memories I have of Daddy, and I’ll hold up four fingers - staring at the back of his head from the back seat of the car as he drove; burying my hand in his giant palm as he walked me to kindergarten where he was the principal; running to his school office to get a bandaid when I fell and scraped my knee; and wrestling with him at night until I collapsed with giggles.
​     That's it.   
      I’ve studied photos of him in his college football gear. Read romantic letters he wrote my mom from a sub chaser during World War II. And watched home videos where he flashes his wide grin.     But honestly, I don’t know him.   
      So I’m throwing out a challenge to you who still have your dad. Sit with him and look through old photos. Watch home videos together. Call him and ask questions, questions, and more questions about his growing up, his dreams, his career.     
     You may discover a father you never knew.