Cherish Dads

 When Dad was called home, I thought the hardest part would be the silence: no more footsteps in the hallway at 5:30 a.m., no gravelly “Love you, kid” over the phone, no one to fix the leaky faucet with a grunt and a roll of duct tape. I braced for emptiness. What I didn’t expect was how full the world would still feel of him.

Cherishing him now isn’t about clinging to the past; it’s about noticing how much of him never left.

I cherish him in the way I automatically check the oil before a long drive, because he drilled that into me like it was a moral duty. I hear him every time I tell my own son, “Measure twice, cutyaker once,” and catch myself smiling at the same corny joke he told a thousand times. I feel him when I pour coffee too strong and black, when I hold the door for strangers, when I refuse to let anyone leave my house hungry. These aren’t memories; they’re habits he carved into me, permanent as bone.

Some days the missing hits like a punch (birthdays, Father’s Day, the first cold morning when I reach for the old flannel he used to wear). But even grief carries him. The ache is proof that love doesn’t end; it just changes address.

I talk to him still. Out loud, sometimes, when no one’s around. I tell him about the grandkids he never met, about the promotion, about how I finally learned to back up a trailer on the first try. I thank him for teaching me that being a man has nothing to do with never crying and everything to do with showing up anyway. I ask forgiveness for the teenage years when I thought I knew everything. Mostly, I just say, “I hope I’m making you proud.”

Cherishing a father who’s gone isn’t living in yesterday. It’s carrying him forward: in the way I treat people, the way I work, the way I love. He’s not here, but he’s not gone. He’s in my reflex to help without being asked, in my stubborn belief that things worth doing are worth doing right, in every quiet moment I choose kindness over being right.

Death took his hand out of mine, but it couldn’t take him out of me.

So I keep cherishing him the only way I know how: by trying to live like the man he raised. And when my own time comes, I hope someone says the same about me (that long after I’m called home, I’m still walking around in their choices, their laughter, their heart).

Until then, Dad, I’ve got the coffee on. Strong and black. Just how you liked it. Love you forever.