Five years without you, but somehow, you’re still here.
When Mom told me I’d never see you again, I thought it was just something people say. I was 12, I didn’t understand there wouldn’t be a then. I thought dads were made of something stronger, that you were too young to die, and I was too young to lose you. I thought we had more time.
Grief, when you carry it as a child, feels like the weight of the world. Everyone always said I was strong. But I never asked to be strong. I just wanted my dad.
I get angry sometimes, when I see other daughters with their dads. When they hug them, or joke around. When they get moments I can’t have. I hate how bitter it makes me. But more than anything, I just wish I could have that.
People always said I had your face, the same eyes, the same smile. But they also said I had your spirit. The way I made people laugh. The way I could light up a room. So, after you left, I became it. I wore your spirit like a mask. I carried your joy on my back like it was my own. Because if I couldn’t keep you, I could at least keep the way you made people feel.
Every time something big happens, somehow, our song plays. Three Little Birds. My first dance competition of this season, it played. My first vacation without you, it played. And every time, I’m hit with the same ache that I’ll never get to dance for you again or hug you just because.
But when my friends say they can pick me out in a room just by my laugh, it makes me smile. Because what they don’t know is that laugh.. it’s yours. It’s you, and it’s mine now too.
Five years of learning to breathe without you. Five years of carrying you in my heart. But somehow, even with all the pain, you’re still here.
