The card arrived by mail the day before Father’s Day.
The first page wished me a happy day. The hand-written note inside encouraged me to indulge in pastimes that an observant daughter knew would appeal.
Very sweet, more than a grown child’s perfunctory fulfillment of a Father’s Day duty.
And not what touched me most.
The envelope.
Because where the recipient’s name usually appears was … not my name. Not any name.
“Dad.”
Just “Dad.”
Ahh. Before I’d slit the envelope, I felt promoted to single-name celebrity.
Madonna. Beyoncé. Drake.
Dad.
LeBron. Oprah. Cher.
Dad.
Many years ago, in a department store in China, she’d spoken in a 3-year-old’s crystalline voice.
“Baba,” she said to me, using the Chinese word for “Dad.”
A half dozen store clerks exclaimed. They’d understood nothing else we’d said. They got “Baba.”
I felt joy in that moment. She’d declared our connection.
Seeing “Dad” on that envelope brought similar joy. It seemed both endearment and affirmation: “Dad, you’re my dad. I’m saying it aloud.”
I may be overthinking this. I don’t care.
For I am Dad.
From one Baba to another, this is mei!
Happy Baba’s Day, Steve.
Hi Dad.
Back at you, Dad.
Such an endearing post. Happy Baba’s Day, Jeff.
One word. A whole world. ‘Dad’, spoken, written, felt. This piece holds that quiet, eternal bond with grace. Happy (Belated) Father’s Day to all the amazing fathers out there.