Dear Dad,

Not a day goes by that I don’t find myself wishing I could hear your voice again. In the six weeks you spent in the hospital before you died, we spent more time together than we had in years. I knew when you asked to see your granddaughter at the hospital, instead of when you got home, you weren’t ever coming home. They said you had six months to a year to live, but in my heart I knew you didn’t.

I find myself regretting pushing you to do the chemo and radiation, when you said you didn’t want. You said you just wanted to go home and let come what may. I wanted to extend your life; I wanted you to WANT to extend your life. I didn’t want you to want to leave us. When Nana died, you gave up. She was your mother, your sun, moon and stars. You were an Italian son, she doted over you for your whole life and you were dedicated to her like you would never be to any other woman. It was barely three years later that you left us. When she passed, you let your health go and you were angry, all the time. It was hard to be around you and I admit I started to avoid you because there was no talking to you.

But during the weeks before you died, all we did was talk. You told me you were proud of me; you’d never said that. You said you made so many mistakes and I knew I had, too. But most of all you told me you loved me, which you’d barely said during my lifetime. As difficult as you were, you made me who I am today. You raised me when mom left and you taught me to be independent, and it has served me well. I go to your grave often and talk to you, but it’s the same hollow, empty silence. I close my eyes and try to hear your voice in my head, calling my name from the kitchen when I would walk into the door of your house. One day, I missed you so much that when I went down the basement of my house and breathed in, I smelled your house–the sauce simmering, the ravioli cooking–and I knew you did that to comfort me and let me know you are with me.

I miss you dad. I love you. And, I wish you had more time.

Tee, age 28