I remember the last year my father was alive for Mother’s Day. He didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body — marking holidays really wasn’t his thing — though he loved nearly indiscriminately and believed fiercely in family.
I called him on Mother’s Day, to acknowledge the day, and the absence it represented for each of us.
For a moment, there was a puzzled silence at the other end. Had I lost my mind? Forgotten who he was?
And then an instant later, in falsetto, he replied, “Why thank you, dear.”
He was never one to miss an opportunity for a joke.