Dear Dad,

I’m sorry I didn’t speak at your funeral. There are so many things I wish I would have said, but the grief had a chokehold on my vocal cords. Some say that a sudden loss like yours is paralyzing to those left behind, but for me it was excruciatingly silencing. I’ve been rattling around in that silence since you’ve been gone, filled with an overwhelming sense to share my memories of you with the world – yet emotionally unable to find the words. Much worse than writer’s block, this pain is a writer’s prison.

There is a picture I have of us from the day we went to the city to get your passport. It was a blustery, unforgivingly cold day in mid-November. You called to remind me to wear layers and I implored you to do the same. It was early in the morning – much earlier than I would have preferred – on my day off. My teeth were chattering as we stood on that platform waiting for the train, and you looked over at me and whispered, “Thanks for coming kid.”

I remember every detail of that day. Stopping for a piping hot coffee and buttery croissants to defrost our insides – and to kill some time because you got us there an hour before our appointment, as usual. The tedious hours spent in a dank municipal building, waiting for our number to be called. Dodging unrelenting icy wind needles as we walked for blocks to find a place for lunch. Unknowingly ducking into a vegetarian restaurant and watching you navigate the menu with no complaints. Ordering a glass of potato vodka and toasting to our adventure.

We sipped on more drinks at Penn Station before heading home and both fell asleep on the train, content with your newly acquired passport in hand. I snapped a blurry selfie of us in the parking lot at the train station once we arrived home, and your smile in that picture still makes my heart sing.

Here’s the thing. There was nothing incredibly unique, special, or significantly profound about that day. And that’s just it. You made even the most mundane and sometimes terrible tasks seem enjoyable. There was never a moment that I was in your presence when I did not feel safe and appreciated and loved. Unconditionally loved. In a world of chronic distractions, you were persistently present, you always showed up, and you loved. Admittedly, we laughed a lot too.

The Christmas before you passed was a weird one given the COVID restrictions, and I recall telling you I didn’t think it was a good idea to do our traditional holiday dinner and shopping routine. “Listen to me very carefully,” you said in that stern even-keeled tone that ignited fear in my sternum when I was younger. “This is a tradition we have upheld for over 30 years and there is no way we are stopping now. Wild horses will not keep me from sitting at that table with you tonight.”

And so, at your insistence, we shopped. And long after the mall crowd died down, and the rest of the world returned home to wrap their gifts, we ate. And of course, we drank. I am so grateful for that because unbeknownst to us, it was the end of our tradition. The wild horses were on their way, we just never saw them coming.

I know for certain there are many traits I inherited from you. My big teeth, sarcasm, and wit, a stubborn belief in our convictions, a proclivity for shopping, a fond appreciation for a smooth drink, an indelible generosity, an indisputable work ethic, and a fierce loyalty to the people we love.

I am a bit softer around the edges than you and much more emotional, but what I will always admire about you, and what you have inspired me to be, is the type of person who shows up. For their friends, for their family, for their people. Because you always showed up. In big ways and small ways, in grand gestures and incremental acts of selflessness. The rest of us were just lucky to be the beneficiaries of your presence.

Our world is not the same without you in it.

I’m sorry I didn’t speak at your funeral. Even now as I write this, with the hopes of feeling that burden lifted from my heart, I know it is not enough. But for you, the one person who believed in me when you didn’t always agree with me, who encouraged me when I was incorrigible, who loved me more than the human mind can fathom, and who always showed up… I write one last love letter and hope you understand.

I’m so proud you were my dad.

xxox,
Your little girl