A letter to my father that I hope he never reads

Dear Dad,

You never told me, but I know.

I know there is a heaviness you carry. It brings you down, holds you back. How can I help carry some of the weight?

I want to show you all the ways you showed up for me, because maybe you’ve forgotten. I can play them back like a rewinding tape, replaying them over and over, again and again, until you see, really see.

Because I see.

I see you there at the finish line, smiling as my legs stretch across it and, afterwards, handing me oranges while we sit in fold-out lawn chairs. Do you remember?

I hear you call my name on the playground, and I whisper a laugh as I hide from you. I don’t want our day together to end. Do you remember?

I feel you guiding my small hands that hold hammer and nail, teaching me how to build birdhouses. We wear matching orange aprons. Do you remember?

Now it’s my turn to shout your name and hand you oranges. Will you let me help you? I am strong now, and you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. I want to tell you this; that you can count on me to support you, cheer you on, and keep you going.

But I don't say anything.

Because if I did, you might see my tears or hear the tremor in my voice. This facade of normality around us would crumble, fall like a mist, roll away like a fog. And we would be stripped bare, our fears and anxieties laid out in the open.

It’s too much.

So I won't say it, and you won't say how much you need it. We'll just go on like this, dancing around death, waiting for him to tap you on the shoulder while I weep alone, thinking of oranges and birdhouses and wishing I had said these things.