Even though I trust that your soul has dissolved into the great timeless spirit of everything,
and in this way you are everywhere there ever was to be,
It still pains me to know that I can't just send you a message asking how your week went.

As I watch years go by the window, and I see you in the form of the dad on a motorcycle, hear you through a stranger's laugh, and feel you in my own posture and facial expressions, I still find regret at the words we never had time to say to each other.

That one last time, when you asked me to dinner, just you and I, and I said that I couldn't go for a reason that has long been forgotten, we could have talked about a great many things, or we could have talked about nothing at all.
That's the advantage of the living.

Being Fatherless is hard. Some have fathers who they never see. Some see fathers yet they wish they didn't. I feel lucky with the time I had, yet I hate writing about that in the past tense.