I ran on Father's Day

I'm here at the park for a run. It will be my first attempt at a full mile since my injury. I hope I don't feel any pain.

I walk over to the picnic table in the corner to stretch my calves. It's shaded and there's a gentle breeze to take my mind off of it being 80 degrees. I prop my right leg up on the bench and lean forward, looking out to the field ahead of me. There's a pavilion with a bunch of people running around, playing catch with a football. Smoke rises from a grill. Closer to me, there is a man swinging a child around his waist. The child is giggling. "Again, daddy!" he says.

Oh shit. It's Father's Day.

I switch legs.

What do people do on Father's Day? I can't even remember the last time I spent this day with my dad.

I bring my left leg back, turn around and walk over to the trail.

Here we go. I press the start button on my Timex, a beep sounds, and so do my feet, shuffling through the mud on the ground.

There is no foot pain. But my heart aches.

Yeah, we will never be able to make up the lost childhood where band recitals were missed, dances were never danced at father/daughter socials, and no golf clubs ever swung together on a Saturday morning. I know it was never meant to be this way. But life happens. Hell, injuries happen and we heal. Why can't this other pain go away so easily?

And just like that, I'm done with this run. 9:23. Not too bad for the first time out. I walk back to my car. Red eyes match the Powerade I reach for on the passenger seat.

I take a long sip and sniff back the tears that have turned into snots. I must stretch again.

At the same picnic table, I prop up the right leg, lean in. God, this stretch feels good.

Next to me now is a woman, mid-30s, on a blanket. She is lying down, face up, looking at the clouds.

Why isn't she with her father on this day? Did she grow up without one too? Or, wait...

Shit, my father is still alive. I jog back over to my car, open the door, and reach for my phone in the cup holder. I scroll through the address book, stopping at 'Dad'. I could text him, 'Happy Father's Day!', to avoid the awkward pauses in a phone conversation.

My thumb hits send.

It's ringing.

My stomach sinks.

"Hi Dad," I say.