Still My Home

10/12/2025

Ink settles into skin the way your lessons settled into my life—permanent, patient, true. These wings aren’t for flying away; they’re for carrying what you left in me. Each line is a road back to your voice, each dot a night we survived together, each feather a moment you chose tenderness over anger, wisdom over pride.

I know the world will keep asking me to move on. Instead, I move forward—with you. The body heals around the mark, and the heart does too. But the meaning remains, steady as breath.

If anyone asks, I’ll say it simply: love needed a place to live, so I gave it a home under my skin.

Your name beats quietly beneath everything I do.

10/12/2025

Dad…
Ink settles into skin the way your lessons settled into my life—permanent, patient, true. These wings aren’t for flying away; they’re for carrying what you left in me. Each line is a road back to your voice, each dot a night we survived together, each feather a moment you chose tenderness over anger, wisdom over pride.

I know the world will keep asking me to move on. Instead, I move forward—with you. The body heals around the mark, and the heart does too. But the meaning remains, steady as breath.

If anyone asks, I’ll say it simply: love needed a place to live, so I gave it a home under my skin.

Your name beats quietly beneath everything I do.

10/12/2025

If there is a place where artists rest,
May it cradle you gently, without pain or shadow.
Your stories remain alive — in film, in voice, in memory.
Diane Keaton, rest among the stars you once commanded.

10/12/2025

10/11/2025

People often say that time heals all wounds, but they don’t understand — this isn’t a wound that can be healed. It’s a mark that lives deep within the soul, a scar that time can never erase. The sharp pain softens, yes, but it never truly disappears. It lingers — a quiet, familiar ache that becomes part of who I am.

This scar isn’t something I hide or wish away. It’s proof — a testament to the love I felt, to the bond that shaped me, to the incredible man whose presence changed my life. I will carry it with me always, not as a symbol of pain, but of love that was real and loss that was profound.

It will never fully heal — and, in a way, I don’t want it to. Because as long as it remains, so does he.

10/11/2025

10/11/2025

You are the first person I think of in the morning and the last one I whisper goodnight to. You're not just a memory, Dad; you're a constant presence in my thoughts and the forever keeper of my heart.

10/10/2025

The universe is aligning in your favour.
October 10th, 2025 — your turning point.
The day when everything you’ve worked for begins to take shape.
The fog lifts, and the path becomes clear.
What once felt heavy will start to make sense.
This is your season of growth, healing, and becoming.
The universe hasn’t forgotten you — it’s just been preparing you.

10/10/2025

I watch them run toward the light, fearless and laughing, and I realize joy has its own language. It speaks in grass-stained knees and tangled hugs, in the way little hands reach for ours without checking if we’re strong enough. Their trust humbles me; their wonder teaches me to start over.

We prayed for stories, and God gave us these living poems. We prayed for purpose, and He tucked it into their ordinary needs—a cup of water, a bedtime whisper, a place to be held.

May they grow brave and gentle. May we grow wise and soft.

Blessed are we, indeed.

10/10/2025

If love could be measured by steadiness, you’d be a landmark on every map I carry. You didn’t need grand speeches—you showed up, again and again, with your sleeves rolled, with your patience intact, with a love that didn’t make me earn it.

I thought “always” was just a word until I learned how grief works. It takes the visible away and leaves the true things—character, kindness, the way you believed in me before I knew how. I still hear your “you’ve got this” when the task is too big, still picture your nod when I choose the harder, better thing.

You are not a past tense.

You are my forever present.

10/09/2025

There’s a softness I learned from you, even in the face you made when holding back tears. You showed me that tenderness is not the opposite of strength; it is the proof of it. When I think of you, I think of quiet bravery—the kind that fixes a broken hinge before dawn, the kind that apologizes first, the kind that stands guard over a grieving child and calls it love.

Some days the ache returns like a tide, and I let it. Grief, I’ve learned, is just love that’s learned to live without a hand to hold. But when it swells, I picture the place I could always return to—your shoulder, your steady yes, your listening without hurry.

You were the best man I knew because you were good when no one was looking.

My heart still goes home to you.