I’ve written this column before. At least parts of it. Figuratively, every time I put words to country roads, the miracles of nature, or the wonders of the night sky, I feel my dad pushing the pen, helping me once again see, hear and feel everything around me. Literally, I’ve written about my dad in the month of June before, most notably in that grief-filled 1989, and then again years later when I could finally put a smile on the month.

Today I turned the calendar to June and all the dates I know so well. It’s a month of anniversaries, of my marriage 39 years ago, of losing both our dogs in recent years, and then, that June 22, marking the death of my dad. Just in front of that, there’s Father’s Day. In 1989 Father’s Day was on June 18. I gave dad his last Father’s Day card. I don’t know if he knew it, though it sat next to his hospital bed. Four days later, on the first full day of summer, dad passed away.

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