This is the 21st Father’s Day I’ll spend without my dad. I haven’t done the math for quite a while. The number of years has sneaked up on me. But no matter how many third Sundays in June remain in my lifetime, I’m sure I will still feel that punch in the gut when I remember that he is gone. Physically gone.

The photo below is the oldest I can find of the two of us. It’s 68+ years old. Mom wrote my age, 4 1/2 months, at the bottom. She didn’t say that Dad was 29.

I miss many things about him, none more than the love and safety that comforted me when I was with him. And you know what? Sometimes I can still feel him holding me, like in this picture.

One of the blogs that I follow, Running in My Head, moved me to tears this week when Jay E., the blogger, wrote:

No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.

The way Dad lived life, his humor, smile, love, and so much more are still causing ripples in the lives he touched. Especially those of his children. So he is not gone at all.