But you loved us still.
Loved children, animals, the fragile beating things,
Even when your own heart cracked louder than your voice.
I didn’t call you hero then,
I didn’t know how.
You wanted me to be a doctor,
I became something else. But I still heal, I still carry your flame.
I felt your dying once.
It curled into my gut like a knot,
And then I was born again—
Through you, through her, through me.
You never looked like a saint, but you bled like one.
And now, in this cruel world you’re lucky not to see,
I miss your righteous anger,
Your soft hands,
Your absence that still aches like an unspoken prayer.
If you’re listening:
This is me saying it, at last.
I see you. I forgive you. I thank you.
And I miss you, my hero.
