I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop tonight, talking to my friend Kathy.  I can’t remember what we were speaking of, but I mentioned the fact that my biological Dad, Tom, died when he was 47.  I was only 20 at the time, so I suppose 47 didn’t seem that young.  Now that I’m older (don’t ask, I’ll only lie about it), 47 is sooo not that old.  It hit me like a ton of bricks:  my Dad died when he was only 47!

My adopted Dad, Keith, has been the one to raise me, since I was six.  I didn’t know my bio-dad all that well:  the last memories I have of him alive are dim, and I’m not sure of the time.  I know the last time I saw him I was under ten years old.  He died when I was twenty.  And although I’ve had the luck and privilege of having a fantastic adopted father, I still wish I had known my bio-dad better.  Known what kind of person he was.  Knew something more personal about him than what an old photograph can show me.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to dig around in my childhood detritus or waffle on about my feelings over it.  I just wanted to take a moment to reflect on my two dads, and wish them both (and all dads) a Happy Father’s Day.

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