Bittersweet

Yesterday was Father's Day. LSH and I along with the Punkinhead, celebrated Saturday night with a sumptuous dinner at a lovely restaurant. We also dropped in for a quick visit with my FIL.
We did not, however celebrate with my father. This is because my father has been dead for 33 years.
I can barely remember him aside from me "helping" to wash the car (This involved me next to the rear fender with an old cloth and a can of Bug and Tar Remover, and one very achy index finger.)
I recall the long annual car ride to our vacation home (whining, coloring books, and idle threats to "pull the car over").
I remember him hosing down the driveway. (What is it about a driveway and a hose for old men?)
The ever-present cigar. (I can't smell cigar smoke even now without thinking of him.)
I remember learning to ride a two-wheeler.
I remember getting new Easter dresses. (My sister and I matched. Always.)
And sneaking out of bed to eavesdrop on the "grown-up" conversations at my parents cocktail parties and being proud that my dad told a story that made everyone laugh, but not understanding the story myself at all.
While all the above are special and cherished, they are paltry few for a lifetime of memories.
When friends talk about the relationship they had --or have-- with their dads, I get a little envious thinking about all I missed out on because my father had the misfortune to die young. Especially when Punkinhead came along, I would think about how much he'd have enjoyed having a granddaughter.
But, then I think that losing my father at such a young age, shaped me into the person I am now. And if not for that, I would not have followed the same life path and most certainly would not have my Punkinhead. When I remember that, I'm able to suppress the wistfulness.