It’s Father’s Day.

The boys woke Greg up this morning with gifts in hand, soon to be followed by breakfast in bed, including waffles with syrup. Of course, I also wish I was making my usual Father’s Day phone call to my own Dad, who will be gone two years this August, and would have said the usual, ‘Well, thank you very much, Doober.’

Instead, memories will have to do.

Greg and I were watching a show Friday night about people who get visits from loved ones who have passed away, and I told Greg it would be nice to hear from my dad. He sensed a little doubt on my part. Maybe because these stories on television seemed too good to be true, but I told him I just don’t see it happening. That’s when Greg told me to wish for a sign, any sign. I settled on pennies, the coins our kids call ‘Papaw pennies,’ when they discover one in various places.

Yesterday, we visited the school where Dad played ball during his childhood years, when our 5-year-old came running up to show me the penny he had found in the gym. ‘Look, Mom! It’s a Papaw penny!

He dug it deep in his pocket and I had to smile. Thanks, Dad.

Happy Father’s Day.

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