Is Father’s Day the most minor-key of holidays? Certainly it lacks the she-deserves-it! hoopla of Mother’s Day, with its typical showering of gift bouquets and chocolate assortments. Dads don’t get much on June 21st, maybe a card or a hug (I remember bringing my late father a Coors Light from the fridge). That’s because we already have it pretty good, goes the thinking. Moms are the undersung heroines of the household, the ones who do an inordinate share of labor. Dads, meanwhile, enjoy the spoils of patriarchy. Our holiday can pass quietly by.
Dads are famously good at prompting literary musings, however. This Father’s Day we urge you to spend a little time with a lovely read from Vogue’s archive: Tamasin Day-Lewis’s recollection of her father, Cecil Day-Lewis, which ran as a Nostalgia in Vogue’s January 2006 issue. Accompanied by an elegant Irving Penn portrait of Day-Lewis pere, Tamasin’s essay describes the Anglo-Irish poet as a complicated figure in her life. He died when she was eighteen. (Her brother, the actor Daniel Day-Lewis, was fifteen.) “Not knowing a parent as an adult, his not seeing your achievements and catastrophes, your falling in love and having children, is a truncation of a sort that never quite leaves you…” she writes—a line that hits piercingly home.
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