Father’s Day is this Sunday, and seeing as I no longer have a father of my own, it’s a celebration I won’t be partaking in. I did think about going over to the cemetery to bring some flowers, but I don’t think I’m up for it. I feel contrite just writing out the words, but even if I did go, I don’t think I’d be going with an honest heart. It’s weird; I mean it’s been what, eleven months? The first anniversary of his death is next month. I don’t know what I feel for the man anymore, if I felt anything at all really. It’s not like I was even that close with the man in the first place, so why should it bother me? But I can’t stop myself from thinking about what I’d said to my previous therapist after his death: Was I sad because he was dead or sad because I never knew him? Was I crying because he was my father or because he was anything but? Maybe I just need to grow up a little more, maybe it’s an unconscious work-in-progress, either way, it seems as though the answers I seek will never come to me completely. And maybe, it’s better that way.