Father, Daughter Share Bond While Saying Nothing at All

As I try to think of a story, an experience, or anything, to encompass the full range of what makes my relationship with my father special this Father's Day, I keep coming back to moments of silence. Whether sitting together on opposite sides of the room watching a favorite movie, or sipping separate sodas at a baseball game, or driving along a long stretch of paved roads in the car, the things I remember most are silent moments.

The thing is, between a father and daughter, silence is usually more than silence. Silence becomes shared space, a joining together in an experience where words are not needed, and thus not shared. Silence relates that in that very moment, all that needs to be has already been passed between the two, without words, without sound, only through the knowledge that the other is there.

Other daughters out there will understand. And fathers, too, but from a side I cannot speak of. For us daughters, or at least for me as a daughter, the special relationship between a father and daughter is not so distant from that special relationship we all dream of with a first true love. Nobody has to say anything; it's enough just being there. Together.

I remember my dad once telling me about a friend asking him in college if he was uncomfortable with the concept of silence. It seemed like a joke until the moment, while on a trip together, I found myself babbling on about absolutely nothing just to fill the white noise that kept developing. My dad was taking me to a baseball game for my birthday, our first Major League Baseball game together. The trip took us from our home to Baltimore, a drive of more than an hour, which left plenty of room for conversation, or silence. Not being a person who enjoys going too long in the company of others with nothing said, I rambled on about work, or college experiences I'd probably talked about before, and my brother, and a friend's relationship troubles. My dad proved himself a saint by listening without complaint until I finally ran out of things to say, and simply shut up.

I'm sure it wasn't the first time I realized it, but it suddenly dawned on me that the silence that suddenly erupted was nice.

We talked plenty during the game, but much of the game was spent in shared silence. We took in the sights and sounds of the ballpark together, watching the game with a love my father first gifted me with and now we shared. We ate dinner at the harbor together, mostly in silence, and shared a silent ride on the Metro back to our car, and a mostly silent ride home. And it was nice. It was the silent times that mattered most, because in that silence it became clear that the time we spent together was something special.

Too many people think that there are lots of things to say to show love to a father. But maybe it's also true that the way to show love to the man whose silent strength we so often rely on is a gift of matched silence. Maybe it's the moments of just being together, sharing a space and place in time and knowing that the moment belongs to the two of you, without ever having to say it, that mean the most. We grow up hugging and snuggling and tickling to show our love, and suddenly reach an age where we think it's our words that say the most about what we feel.

But maybe this Father's Day, and ultimately in life, it is those silent moments of shared affection, where nothing needs to be said, that say the most about how much our fathers are, and always will be, loved.