Daddy Died Today

Daddy died today.

And the house has gone silent

in a way that hurts my bones.

It feels like the walls are holding their breath,

afraid that if they exhale,

your memory might scatter

like dust in a sudden wind.

Daddy died today,

and suddenly every sound feels wrong—

the ticking clock,

the passing cars,

my own heartbeat.

Everything continues,

as if the universe forgot to pause

and whisper,

“A giant has left us.”

I walked into your room

the way someone walks into a museum—

slowly, gently,

afraid to disturb anything sacred.

Your pillow still held the shape of your head,

a ghost of your presence,

a soft reminder that you were here

just yesterday.

Just yesterday…

and now

you’re gone.

But grief is strange.

It does not scream.

It sinks—

heavy, quiet, steady—

into the hollows of my chest.

Everyone says time heals,

but they never mention

how time also reopens wounds

without warning.

I found your old letters,

those crooked, careful lines

you wrote in a hurry,

signing them with a heart

you pretended not to care about.

You were loud in life

but gentle in love.

A storm outside,

a warm blanket at home.

I remember your laugh—

the one that shook your shoulders

and made everyone else laugh

even when we didn’t know why.

I remember your anger—

sharp but brief,

like thunder that frightens

but never truly harms.

I remember your hands—

calloused, strong,

yet soft enough to fix every broken thing

I brought to you.

You fixed toys,

broken shelves,

and sometimes even

my broken heart.

But Daddy died today,

and nothing feels fixable anymore.

They say you’re in a better place.

But what place is better

than the chair you sat in every morning,

drinking tea,

complaining about the newspaper,

telling me to turn off lights

because the electricity bill was too high?

What place is better

than the world where I could call your name

and hear your voice answer back?

I don’t want angels.

I don’t want heaven.

I don’t want poetic peace

or spiritual comfort.

I want you—

your imperfect jokes,

your stubborn habits,

your mismatched socks,

your heavy footsteps in the hallway

that always warned us

you were awake.

I want one more moment

where I can say the things

I didn’t know were unsaid.

The apologies,

the thank-yous,

the I-love-yous

I assumed there would always be time for.

Time—

that greedy thief—

left me standing here empty-handed.

Tonight,

I will sit beside your empty chair

and pretend you’re on your way home.

I’ll imagine you pushing open the door

with that familiar sigh,

saying the world is too noisy

and the day was too long.

And I will pretend

just long enough

to breathe without breaking.

But tomorrow,

and the day after,

and all the days

I don’t know how to live without you—

I will carry you.

In the shape of my hands

that look like yours,

in the stubbornness I inherited,

in the way I soften

when someone I love needs me.

You will live

in my laughter,

my tears,

my memories,

my choices.

You will live

in the parts of me

that learned how to be brave

because you existed.

Daddy died today.

But the love you planted—

that does not die.

It stays.

It breathes.

It walks through the world

wearing my face,

my voice,

my heartbeat.

You may have left me forever,

but you have not left me alone.