Dear Dad, If you could see the things I’ve made …

For every daughter who wishes her father had lived to see her creations.

Dear Dad,

I didn’t expect to write you today, but suddenly it seemed so urgent. I just had to tell you — to urge you to look, and see me, and watch over me, and see the things I’ve made.

I’ve made things that created happiness. I’ve made things that taught youngsters how to read better. Things that inspired people to follow their dreams. I’ve read letters from readers, saying, “What you wrote is exactly what I needed today,” and stuff like “I was struggling, and then I found your blog. I’ve been reading it all night. Thank you for sharing your words.”

I’ve created music that not only made people dance but created memories for them that they still carry, fifteen years later.

I’ve created food that nourished friends and family.

I’ve created a home with my husband and my son — a sweet, little, warm wooden nest of a tree where we retreat on cold winter nights.

And yes, Dad, I have created a son.

That’s the one that makes me cry. All the other stuff is wonderful, but the son — the boy who turns 13 today — that’s the one creation I wish you had lived to see.

You would be so proud of him, Dad. You would love sitting and listening to him talk about space and science and nature. You’d take hikes with him and probably still hold his hand (if he’d let you). You’d take so much pleasure seeing him devour his birthday cake. You’d be like a proverbial kid on Christmas watching his surprise when he opens his presents. You two would be kindred spirits.

I know, I know, I know: You do know. You do see him. You told me he was coming and that he was going to be great, in that dream I had right after I found out. I can still remember the scene. You were sitting on a bench across the field on a warm and sunny spring day. I ran up to you. I felt the importance of what you had come to tell me. It wasn’t the mundane feeling of a regular dream. It was special. I no longer remember what you said, but I remember how it felt: a second or two in Chronos’ time; an entire afternoon in Kairos’.

When it was over, I knew he would be fine, and I knew you were watching him. And watching us. Always.

Love,
San-san