I miss you. I wanted to say it plainly, because it's the one true thing I keep carrying around.
This morning I drove past the lake and my first thought was to call you. Then I remembered it would be 5 a.m. where you are, and I smiled, because that is exactly the hour you'd already be awake. I could picture you with your thermos and your line in the water, the sky just starting to turn pale, and nobody in a hurry. Dawn has always felt like yours.
Since you moved to Arizona, the days feel a little wider with you so far away. But so much of you came with me. I hear you in every old radio show that crackles on, in the way a roll of duct tape still seems to promise that anything can be mended, and in the quiet I have learned to trust because you showed me how. You never needed many words. You were patient, and you let me know I was safe just by sitting beside me.
I also think about your laugh, the way it arrives so quickly and makes a whole room feel lighter. I'm proud to be the child of someone so gentle and so steady. I'm grateful for every early morning, every fixed thing, every calm answer when I was sure the world was falling apart.
I hope Arizona is treating you kindly, and that your mornings there are full of good light. There is nothing you need to do about this letter. I just wanted you to know that when I think of home, I think of you, like a porch light left on and a warm blanket within reach.
I miss you, Dad. I love you, always and without conditions, wherever either of us happens to be.