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It's been about 11 and a half years since my father died. The timing is important...11 means that he would have gotten to see Jesse at least once. 12 means that he would never have known about him.

My dad would have loved my son. Not just because of duty...that results in words with no feeling and no joy. No, my dad and my son would have bonded. There would have been phone calls, visits, trips. In my mind, I can imagine my dad holding Jesse as an infant, helping him walk, taking him fishing. I don't picture Dad reading to Jesse, mostly because Dad didn't read a lot ;-)

Jesse felt the loss when he was little. Near as I can tell, one day at his pre-pre-pre-school (he was between 2 and 3), another kid's grandfather showed up at the end of the day, because Jesse wanted to know who a "grandfather" was. After that, "Grandpa" was always around. He gave Jesse his pet beaver, named Cheddar. (No, my dad never had a beaver. Jesse didn't either until we found a beautiful stuffed animal at Foxwoods the following year.) Grandpa built a pond for Cheddar under Jesse's bed...we were told to be careful when coming in to give Jesse a kiss goodnight so that we didn't get wet.

There were times when it got...well...interesting. At one swimming lesson when he was 5, Jesse refused to do the stroke the way the instructor said to. When she asked him about it, he told her that Grandpa taught him how to swim this way. Unsure of how to proceed, she came to talk to me and asked if I could talk to my dad about it, because she really wanted Jesse to learn the right way to swim.

At some point, Jesse let go of Grandpa. It's hard to remember exactly when because it just happened naturally. But every Father's Day (along with his birth and death days), we remembered my dad and wish he was here to see what his grandson has become.

I miss you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.