You never made it out of the early days.
I see your face sometimes in the mirror—same jaw,
but your eyes aren’t tired yet.

You had plans.
Straight lines and clean hands.
You really thought grit alone would get you through.
I admire that.
Even now.

There were forks you didn’t see,
roads I walked instead.
Some of them cost more than they were worth.
Others saved me
by breaking me first.

I held your name like a knife for a while.
Cut a few people.
Cut myself more.

There was a woman you would’ve loved
and left.
I stayed.
She left anyway.
That one still stings.

There’s a boy now
who calls me Dad.
He wouldn’t know you,
but I think you’d like him.
He’s gentler than we ever were
and stronger for it.

You’d hate how slow I’ve gotten.
How quiet.
How long I sit before answering.

But I’m still here.
Wiser, maybe.
Definitely more scarred.

Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me.
Not sure you’d be proud,
but I think you’d understand.

You burned bright.
I burn low,
but steady.
You chased light.
I learned to live in shadow.