My father left when I was two. My mother said he was on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean Sea. He might have been. I'll never know
When I was five a letter came in the mail. I sat in my mother's lap as she read it to me. He said he wasn't coming home. We both cried.
On my 8th birthday a card came in the mail:
"Happy belated birthday! I know I have been somewhat of a disappointment to you for not having visited yet. Maybe I will be able to visit you sometime this summer. I will try. Someday maybe you and God will forgive me."
One year later:
"Happy belated birthday! I am very sorry that I haven't come to visit you yet. There really isn't any excuse. If I can get the time off, I will come visit for a couple of days. Until then baby, just be patient. I have neglected you and hope that someday, if God is willing, I can make it up to you. Please forgive your daddy and I will do better."
One year later:
"Happy Birthday! I don't know when I will get my vacation this year, but if I possibly can I will try to come visit you. I seem to always be promising to visit, but never doing anything about it."
One year later, he visited.
And twice more, over the next several years.
Then, six days after my 20th birthday, he was killed in a plane crash.
The moral of the story:
Make every day count. Because you never know when it will be your last. Live in the present. The past is over. And the future is not a sure thing.
