As a kid, I always struggled to connect with my dad. This Father's Day, I'm struggling to find the perfect place for his urn.

• As a queer kid, I found it difficult to connect with my super masculine, Irish father.
• After he died, I struggled to find the perfect spot for his urn and feared disappointing him again.

I've always loved my dad, but he was a gruff Irish construction worker, and I was his queer son who loved Jane Austen novels and stunk at sports. We never really connected.

Growing up, I dreaded Father's Day because I had no idea how to celebrate or honor him. Each year, I handed him a card with generic words such as, "Have a great day." Showing any more emotion than that was prohibited. Dad believed men should only have two emotions: hungry and angry.

After handing him the Father's Day card, he and I would then go to the movies. I suspected this was to avoid talking, so I also kept my mouth shut on the ride home, except to crunch on my leftover popcorn.

Now I'm 42, and my father passed away in 2020. He was 74. This Father's Day, I'm still struggling to figure out what to do with his remains.

I hated the urn with my dad's ashes from the moment I saw it

After his death, I was surprised to learn that my devoutly Catholic dad had wanted to be cremated. When my mother insisted that I have some of his ashes, I was taken aback. I didn't want them, but there was no point in arguing with my obstinate Italian mother, who later showed up at my home with a tray of spaghetti and meatballs — and a tiny metal urn.

It was the size of a pack of LifeSavers, coated in burgundy. With a round base and pointy top, the urn seemed more suited for a genie than for my father. I hated it, but I assured my mom I'd find a good home for him.

But finding the perfect spot for my father's ashes seemed impossible

I started with the nightstand next to my bed. I didn't love how silly a small urn looked next to my large lamp, but I liked the idea of waking up and greeting my father each day. But the next morning, my arm attacked my nightstand like a tornado and sent Dad crashing to the floor. I panicked, fearing I'd spilled his ashes. I was relieved when I found the still-intact urn under my bed. I despised myself for being such a klutz.

I then moved Dad to my dresser, but something felt weird about him sitting above my underwear drawer. Next, I tried the fireplace mantel in my living room. That felt clichéd. The kitchen and hallway didn't feel right either, and the bathroom was a definite no. I went to my office, where I placed Dad on a bookshelf and surrounded him with my favorite novels. It made me happy seeing him there, but it also felt like I was trying to force him to become a bookworm in the afterlife.

I then put him in the garage. I remembered Dad laughing and cursing as he worked on our wood-paneled station wagon; I remembered when he built me a pinewood derby car for the Cub Scouts — one of the few things we did together. I placed the urn in a temple of hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. It seemed the most befitting.

After a few days, I couldn't handle Dad being all alone in a dark garage. I brought him back upstairs.

I soon realized that no spot was good enough for his ashes because I felt like I wasn't good enough for him growing up. I worried I was going to disappoint him again.

Obsessing over Dad's urn made me see our relationship in a different light

As Father's Day approaches again, I can't help but feel the irony that I once again don't know what to do with my dad on this holiday. But the more I obsess over finding the perfect spot for him, the more I analyze our relationship.

Sure, I always felt like a disappointment to him, but to his credit, my father never tried to change me. He may have struggled to accept that I am gay, but he didn't disown me, feign disgust, or preach to me. When I brought a fiancé into the mix, my father accepted us. I think back to my wedding day, when Dad sat in the front row and cheered me on — as if I'd finally learned how to punt a football.

Now, I can't stop thinking back to how accepting he was of me even though we were so different — it makes me sad for all of the silences we shared. I've moved his ashes countless times and now he sits on a small table in my home office. I can't say for sure that I won't move it again. Nothing has felt right, because on this Father's Day, I really want to talk to him and not to his urn.