It is the day when sons and daughters buy a bottle of Old Spice, perhaps a tie or two, or some tool for the man they call dad, father, daddy, pops.

As a little girl, every year the purchase was a bottle of Old Spice. The funds were not my own, nor was I the one who actually bought the signature scent.

But it was I who anxiously held the bottle in my hands, approached him in his yellow sweater and handed over the gift as if I were passing along an ancestral treasure. If the size of his moustached smile were any indication, a gift from his daughter was far more valuable.

It is not what I remember, but what I think I remember. There may be clarity to a memory of a five and six-year old, but the veracity is much harder to gauge.

The memories I do not have are much clearer. There is no memory of my dad standing on the sideline of a soccer game screaming with excitement  – or more likely – screaming in anger at some real or perceived injustice.

There is no memory of sitting with him at a baseball game or hearing the sound of his laugh as we watched and watched again an old Monty Python movie.

And there are no memories of shared words of wisdom offered as I set forth into the world after my high school graduation. Those are memories that were lost on the February morning that he succumbed to cancer.

Like the anniversary of his death and his birthday, my thoughts are usually more focused on him than on any other day. Every year for the last decade or so I have called my Aunt Barbara and Lois, my dad’s older sisters, sent my mom flowers and shared quality time on a long run with the man I call, but never knew as, dad.

This year differed slightly. That long run came a day earlier and took place along a 26.2 mile course which wound through the hills and mountains of Wet Virginia and Kentucky.

In setting off to run 14 marathons in 2014, I wanted to ensure it was more than just a personal challenge borne of selfish motivations. I sought to give the journey a purpose and meaning. I was seeking a reward that was not as tangible as the finisher’s medal.

People run for different reasons and for different causes, from saving lives to saving rain forests. I decided I would run for that seven-year old girl who spent months asking her mom when dad was coming home from his work trip. For the girl who could not shed a tear because she was convinced the last kiss good night was not the last kiss.

I would run for the little girl who felt she didn’t quite fit in because the familial dinner table would forever have an unfilled chair. I would run for the girl who will have to share the “father’s dance” at my wedding with my brother.

I would run to make as many people as possible about the amazing work of Comfort Zone camps, which offer children aged 7-17 a weekend away from “being different.”

Founded in 1998, Comfort Zone camps provide kids who have lost parents or family members an opportunity to spend time with other kids who “get it.” Campers do the normal camping activities, such as roasting marshmallows and trekking through the woods. But they also offer sessions in which children can talk about – or not talk about – their loss. More importantly, the camps help them find their way forward.

As with the seven pervious marathons, my eighth offered both perspective and a lesson.

The perspective came shortly after the race. Along the marathon route I noticed stars affixed to the outside of houses, but could not figure out the reason. Walking around the tiny town of Belfry, West Virginia it occurred to me the stars were all gold – meaning the houses were inhabited by Gold Star families who had lost a son or daughter serving our Nation. They, like I, would forever view each day differently.

And that for many, this will mark the first Father’s Day when Dad won’t be around to hug, to hang with and say “I love you.”

The lesson is one which I continue to learn — that getting over dad’s death is as futile a pursuit as spending my life chasing his ghost. But I also realize that focusing on what I lost is a waste of my life – and his.

So what do I wish for on this Father’s Day? I wish that every child who doesn’t have a dad to buy a gift for this year can see the hope in tomorrow and feel their father’s presence in their hearts. I pray that the day they realize their father’s love did not end with his death comes sooner than later and that they are able to find joy in the life that he lived, rather than the pain that is associated with his death. And I hope they know they are not alone. Even on Father’s Day.