You were not a small man.
Not quiet, gentle, or humble.
I learned that early—
in the way your voice filled a room before you did,
in the way silence never meant peace,
only waiting.

I remember the sound of you coming home,
entering the front door,
and you spoke like thunder.
Your presence WAS kind of like weather-
something I couldn’t predict,
but learned to live around.

You had your storms.
And I had mine.
And maybe neither of us
ever really understood
where they began.

You didn’t always know how to be close.
I didn’t always know how to reach you.
We missed each other in small, everyday ways—
in the questions we didn’t ask,
in the silences.
There were words we couldn’t find,
spaces between us
that neither of us knew how to cross.

Still,
there were moments,
shared unexpectedly.
A softness that showed up
without warning,
and left just as quietly.
“I feel like you’re the only person on my side today.”

You didn’t always get it right.
But you tried, a lot of the time, actually.
And I see that now,
in ways I couldn’t before.
Those moments
where you were soft
were rare,
but I saw the man you wanted to be.

You made a lot of choices,
and I,
I make a lot of excuses
trying to forgive you.
Sometimes I still can’t.

I’ve grown into someone
you didn’t quite know,
but you helped shape anyway.
And I carry you—
not always easily,
but honestly.
You were not simple.
Neither is grief.
But there is love here.
Always was.
Even if it didn’t look the way we hoped.

You didn’t understand me.
Not really.
I didn’t understand you either—
not the weight you carried,
not the damage you inherited and passed on
without meaning to,
or maybe not knowing how to stop.

But
you really did love me.
In your way.
And I loved you.
In mine.

I turned out alright.
Better, even.
And sometimes I feel guilty saying that.
like surviving you is a betrayal.

You were not all bad.
You were not all good.
You were a storm I came through,
and a story I’m still learning how to tell.

And I miss you.
Even now.
Even still.
Even after everything.
I miss you in ways
I didn’t know I would.

Before you left in December,
I asked if you had advice for me.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Just take one day at a time, sweetie.”
And then, when it was time to go:
“Be careful. I love you.”

I had the longest month of my life, Dad.
I turned thirty and you didn’t turn fifty-five and I still don’t know what to do with that.
I’m just taking it one day at a time.