I miss him.

When he first died, I mostly missed that he was around.
Then, I missed that the family room lost its sound.
I missed his last hugs and his then-quiet voice.
I was left to accept this; no other choice.

I grieved and grieved, eventually coming to terms
with a reality that came to haunt me, so I’d learn,
with nightmares daily, watching him die in new ways,
also loomed darkly o'er me some hours of the day.

What torments me more now, though, is that Dad won't ever,
see who I’ve become; so, so much better,
than the child, the teen, and young adult that he knew,
with his words now all realized, and lessons learned, too.

I could lament this all day, believe me, I’ve tried,
but one single factor stops me—thankfully—every time:
the fact that the living, all sitting around me,
can see it—he can’t—and they’re waiting to see.

I miss him.