In two days, it’ll be six years since you passed.
Every year around this time, I rewrite the eulogy I delivered at your funeral.
And every year, I walk away feeling like I still hadn’t said what I needed to.
That I never quite captured what you meant to me.
It took me six years to realise,
I kept writing about you.
But I never wrote to you.
And maybe…
I never really grieved you at all.
Not fully.
Not honestly.
It’s easier to pretend I’ve just been too busy to catch up with you
than to accept that you’re not here anymore.
This time, I did.
And when I finally spoke to you like you were still listening—
I broke.
I couldn’t stop crying while I wrote this.
This isn’t a eulogy.
This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever written.
Because you’re not supposed to be gone.
And I’m not supposed to be here
still trying to make sense of it
with a few trembling sentences.
I’m sorry if none of this makes sense.
It’s scattered.
It’s been six years since we spoke.
And I don’t know how to do this.
—
I always thought you were an incredible human being.
You weren’t a big man in the way the world measures it.
No fame. No fortune. No honorary titles.
But you built something bigger than all of that.
You built us.
And you held us like we were everything you ever needed.
You held Mum’s hand like it was a contract with the universe.
Even in the hospital, when your body was giving up,
you held her hand like it was the one promise you had to keep.
And it was.
I’d never seen love like that before.
You showed me what real love looked like.
In that moment,
I didn’t see “Dad.”
I saw a man, utterly, hopelessly in love.
And I wish I’d paid more attention to that while you were here.
—
There was a time,
I was a child, too young to understand,
when the repo men came.
They took our car.
Mum cried. Grandma panicked.
And you… you stayed calm.
Tried to hold everything together
while the world took pieces of you away.
Back then, part of me was disappointed in you.
I didn’t know better.
I thought you’d failed us.
But now,
as I got older, I saw it clearly.
You didn’t fail.
You gave.
Even when there was nothing left to give.
That’s when I learned:
you weren’t a god.
You were something better.
You were human.
And you were the best one I’ve ever known.
—
I didn’t say “I love you” enough.
I know that.
You said it all the time.
“I love you.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I took it for granted.
Thought that’s just what dads say.
But you meant every word.
And I didn’t always say it back with the same weight.
And now I carry that.
Six years later,
I tried to say “I love you”
the way I should have back then.
And I couldn’t stop crying.
Because for all the times I said it…
I wish you had heard this one.
—
You used to ask me to join you for breakfast every weekend.
Just a small thing.
A quiet ritual.
And I was always too tired.
Always said no.
You’d smile and ask if you should bring something back.
But I saw it.
That flicker in your eyes.
That quiet, unspoken disappointment.
You just wanted time with me.
And I slept through it.
Even when I came with you, I wasn’t really there.
I wish I could go back.
Say yes.
Every time.
—
I know you’d want me to take care of Mum.
And don’t worry… I do.
I just wish I could do more.
Spend more time with her.
Be more present.
But to be honest, it isn’t easy.
Because every time I’m with her,
all I can see is the empty chair beside her.
And that’s not fair,
because any son would be lucky to have a mum like her.
And I am.
I love her so deeply.
But I’ve never really gotten over the fact
that you’re not here anymore.
I promise you,
I’ll do better.
I’ll show up.
I’ll be present.
Because I don’t want to carry the same regret
I now live with in your absence.
—
You saw me.
Not the version people think they see.
Not the surface-level me.
You saw the quiet one.
The music-maker.
The soul who feels real only when he’s singing.
You asked about my songs.
Even when no one else cared.
You played them in your car.
You understood something about me
that I didn’t even know myself:
that I feel seen when I create.
When I sing.
That was our language.
That’s how we loved each other.
Through music.
Through silence.
You were the only one who really got it.
No one else ever has.
—
You told me to live a life that made me happy.
To choose meaning over money.
To never chase status.
But I did.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I was scared.
And even though I built something successful,
I’ve never really been happy.
You sacrificed because you had to.
I didn’t.
And I still didn’t have the courage to choose differently.
That’s where I think I failed you.
You gave me everything.
And I built a life that doesn’t feel like mine.
—
I still reach for my phone sometimes,
like I can message you.
Like maybe you’ll reply,
“Love you, son.”
But it doesn’t come.
So I replayed your last voice message.
Over and over.
You were asking me how to reboot your laptop.
I listened to it again today.
And I smiled.
And I cried.
Because at the end, you just said,
“See you this weekend.
I love you.”
And part of me still wishes
I just got that message
and I really will see you again.
—
I held your hand at the end.
And I told you I was proud of you.
And I was.
I am.
You were the best man I’ve ever known.
Not for what you did
but for who you were.
I miss you in small, stupid ways.
In the way I expect you to walk into the room.
In the way I see your face in mine.
In the silence.
People say grief gets easier.
It doesn’t.
It just gets quieter.
And sometimes that’s worse.
Because at least loud pain feels like love.
Quiet pain just feels like forgetting.
—
I don’t have a moral.
I don’t have a quote.
I don’t have anything neat to offer.
I just have this:
You were here.
And you loved me so fully,
so completely,
that even now,
even broken,
I’m still standing.
Because you taught me how.
—
I miss you.
I’m still scared sometimes.
I wish you were here to tell me I’m okay.
And I love you.
So much more than I ever knew how to say
when you were here.
Love,
Your Son.
Featured image adapted from a photo by Joshua Earle.
See more on Unsplash: @joshuaearle.
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