The Silence My Father Left Behind

I never knew silence could sound

like an old clock ticking in an empty room,

like your slippers still sitting by the door,

like the morning coffee brewing—for one.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

But it filled the house

in ways I only understood

when it was gone.

You spoke in nods, in half-smiles,

in hands rough from years of holding everything in—

everything except me.

We never talked much,

not about dreams,

not about pain,

not about love.

Your love was the kind that mowed the lawn,

fixed the leaky sink,

showed up to every school recital

but stood in the back,

arms crossed, eyes soft.

You were a quiet man.

But now your silence roars.

It roars in the questions I never asked,

the apologies I never heard,

the memories I now chase

like fireflies in the dusk—

bright for a second,

gone before I can catch them.

I used to think healing was loud.

Therapy. Screaming. Tears.

But grief whispered in your tone.

It whispered when I found your old flannel

still folded with care.

When I heard your laugh in my brother’s.

When I caught myself saying your phrases,

not even knowing I’d learned them.

The silence you left behind

has taught me more about you

than your words ever could.

I see you now

in the quiet acts of love—

in every lamp I fix for my wife,

in every walk I take with my son,

in every time I choose to stay

when it’s easier to leave.

You didn’t teach me how to talk, Dad.

But you taught me how to show.

And now, in your silence,

I finally hear you.

---------------------------------------

Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi