Strange how, where it’s supposed to end, it tends to widen.
If missing is remembering, I do. So much. And if living is feeling, I feel you everywhere. It’s the laugh without the sound. It’s the warmth without the hug. Or a hug without arms. Like being constantly hugged.
And I tire of hearing the same lines said-how you were too young, that we are too young to be without a father. To say how short your life is is to not see how far it goes.
And I do miss you, Dad. If I knew where the key was, there’s not a thing that could hold me back from unlocking the door to where you’re hiding. And I know you’re not hiding. Because I miss you and it’s a missing that I can’t explain. It’s fused into this feeling of being held, of being cradled. It’s the way you must feel when you’re born. When none of it makes sense, when it all seems so strange, and yet you fall asleep in your Dad’s arms and feel so secure.
I feel held. And, when I need you, even for the tiniest reason, I wake up early and I hear your laugh in sips of coffee. Wherever I am, you find me.
And it is strange. It’s magic, Dad. And for what more could a child ask?
I can think of only one thing. And, until then, magic will do.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
I love you. I miss you. And I thank you.
Originally Posted On Facebook.