A Dad's Letter to His Sons (Redux)
A Fathers Day excerpt from Daylight Saving Time
First published in June of 2024. A Father’s Day remembrance.
Father’s Day is a melancholy time for me. I think of my father and his health struggles at the end of his life, his fight to live when the light was going out. My father did “not go gentle into that good night.” He fought death, and sadly he feared it. Yet, considering the true meaning of Dylan Thomas’ famous poem, my father also embraced living, he “raged” for life. He knew, as Thomas did, that life was precious. I cling to that interpretation of Thomas’ words for they are the most powerful.
I, too, am a father. Two sons. My stepson and stepdaughter were adults when they came into my life. Any “father’s” role for me toward them has been a very different one than the one I had with my two biological sons. Time and place determined that. Still, I will always be supportive and loving, for they, too, are of my world. I know, too, how precious that relationship is.
In Daylight Saving Time: The Power of Growing Older, my memoir due out August 1, I write a letter to my two sons, a letter that can also be directed toward my stepchildren, even though it was first delivered to my biological sons. It’s a universal letter, I believe, one that comes to me in the days before and after Father’s Day, a letter for any father to all of his children.
Here is the excerpt. Chapter 46 of Daylight Saving Time.
Chapter 46
The heavens fall toward me in graduating shades of blue. The trees are silhouettes in this early morning. It’s quiet. I slept well. I am rested. And I walk to the shed, knowing what it is I want to say.
Dear boys,
I still call you boys. Funny, isn’t it? Although you are grown men, leaning into your third decades in this world, you both will always be and always have been my boys. And here I am in the early light of a March day, considering my words, as I have done for so long. But this time, they come easily. I don’t struggle for a hidden emotion or some imaginative spark. Instead, the words flow like the water in a mountain river after a long winter.
You can read this when you wish, but I’ve prepared myself to write it for you to read when I am gone, after you have said goodbye and memorialized me in some way, after you have scattered ashes or planted me somewhere, and after you have laughed at some silly moment with me, some dorky dad-ism, or cried with joy at a resurfaced memory of a trip we took together. Cuba comes to mind, when the three of us drank mojitos late at night in that small square in Havana and a street dog rested at our feet.
Why does a dad write to his sons? There are many reasons. I can tell you for certain that some of what I write here will be sappy. It’s unavoidable. Some of it may also be sad. Maybe funny. Some advice, and some suggestions. All of it from deep inside. Some of it you have heard before, enough to roll your eyes. Some of it will surprise you. All of it, you must know, comes from a love so far beyond words.
Let’s get grief out of the way.
It may be the most honest emotion of all when we allow it to be. But do not let grief keep you from laughing. That, too, is grief manifested. Both of you have senses of humor that permit the dark and absurd. Laugh. Please. Laugh at my death. Someone said once, in so many words, and I hope I’m not plagiarizing, but it goes something like this: It’s not the rain that is painful. What’s painful is trying to control the sun.
As I write, I think that maybe the best way to do this is to create a list. So, here goes.
Above all, express yourself. Express love to those you most care about. Friends. Family. Lovers. Don’t let friendships fade. Time and space should not erode those dear connections. This seems simplistic and clichéd. But damn, it is not always easy to do.
Rebel. Question everything. Especially authority. Yes, I’ve told you this all your lives and maybe it has gotten you in trouble from time to time or put you in an uncomfortable or challenging place. But ultimately, you must question. And with this comes questioning yourself, too. Am I being the best I can be? Doing the right thing? Am I true to who I am and those I love? Am I kind?
Find someone to have coffee with, someone to break bread with, and someone to travel with. Being a human with humans will keep you alive.
Don’t compare yourself to others. Screw others. You are you. Praise yourself. Be what you are. But be sure to take the time to find the real you. You can’t be the best you without discovery. Take time to be alone, find passions, and open up to the world. Read. Sing songs. Do the things you are afraid to do.
Don’t wait. Late is too late.
Be a Renaissance man. I already see this in the both of you, but don’t ever stop adding to your talents. Cook new things, know how to drive a nail the right way, how to fix a sink, tie a tie, and dance a reasonable dance. Make music. Make a great Manhattan cocktail. Tell a good joke. Know the meaning of cultural references from film and literature. Memorize a poem.
Know when you are wrong. Say it out loud. Take responsibility. Own up. Avoiding this is weakness. Living this is powerful.
Hold no grudges. A grudge is a sign of weakness. Forgive. Always.
Be vulnerable. It leads to love and the most rewarding moments of your life.
Find time to walk and to live in nature.
Believe in something bigger than you.
Smile. It’s infectious. Oh my, does that sound trite. But the simplest truths sometimes are the most profound.
I didn’t always get it right, this fatherhood thing. Who truly knows what is right and wrong in the framework of this important job? I don’t have regrets, but on some matters, do-overs would be nice. Still, if I were given that chance, I’m not sure I’d take the do-overs. There is an odd kind of beauty in the mistakes—giving up the ruse of Santa Claus too early, and those occasional mini-bursts of anger that seemed misplaced. The forgotten words at a wedding when I thought I had the officiating thing down pat. I did eventually get it right, though, didn’t I? And when you were both in the early days of college, did I reach out enough? When I look back, I see it as a selfish time for me. Was I there for you? I hope so.
I think that’s enough, enough to ponder or enough to make fun of, however you wish to digest these words. But before I stop, there is one last thought.
I have said so often how proud I am of my boys. But pride is a complicated emotion. Sometimes it is dreadfully selfish. I do not speak of pridefulness here, the idea that I should be acknowledged or praised for helping to create who you are. It is not about an ownership of the glory of what goodness you possess. Let me put it this way: I am not proud; I am impressed. I value you. I trust you. But mostly, I am impressed by who you have been, what you are now, and what you will become.
There are a hundred billion stars in the sky, my boys, and yours are the ones I see shining.
Love, Dad
David W. Berner is the author of several books of award-winning fiction and memoir. His debut poetry collection, Garden Tools is due out in pre-sales in June and officially released this fall by Finishing Line Press. His novella, American Moon will be published by Regal House Publishing in 2026.
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Well said, good to read again