This Father’s Day I’m not near my dad.

We’re separated by miles and a state line. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, but I can’t hand him a funny (to me) card or cook him a meal. I can’t hug him or tell him how lucky he is to have me as a badass daughter, though his parenting helped, I’m sure.

All I have to offer is my words, and my words I can give. After all, he’s one of the people in this world that helped me find them.

A letter to my dad on Father’s Day ~

Dad,

I’m in awe of you and of me and of us. My life is made of moments and your presence inside them is indisputable.

I remember family dinners when you were so tired from your 48-hour shifts that you nearly fell asleep at the table, but still somehow managed to steal my best last bite when you thought I wasn’t looking.

I remember the look on your face when it came time to untangle the Christmas lights that always seemed to be tangled, no matter how we put them away the year before. And how you handed that job off as soon as you were able.

I remember you picking me up from school in your traveling office of a car, papers strewn about the front seat and looking chagrined that I was the last to be waiting.

I remember you sitting in my sickroom, at home and at hospitals, keeping me company so that I wasn’t alone and scared. You used your medical knowledge to answer my questions because you knew that I needed all the information in order to cope with the tests and treatments they were handing me.

I remember you watching dozens of movies with a little girl who was too sick to leave the house even though you really only liked one or two of them. You bought more VHS tapes to record them all than any sane person might have, and I’m so grateful that you did.

I remember you turning grocery shopping into a game and teaching me how to shop using a budget, and a meal plan.

I remember your cool casualness and normality when my friends turned from groups of girls into groups with boys and how you eased the way for me to welcome them into our home without awkwardness.

I remember the day you came home with your own diagnosis and the moments you and mom sat in the living room, her on your lap, in silence. All of us stunned.

I remember running to you in the hospital hallway as you lay on a stretcher and all your worries were for mom, you sending me off to find out about her. I remember cleaning the glass out of your hair and dressing your wounds.

I remember the drink you gave me on my 21st birthday that spoiled me for all other whiskeys, forevermore.

I remember spending weeks with you after your mom passed away, learning about our family and leaning on each other as we settled the details of an estate. I remember helping you buy new clothes and going to the cemetery and spilling coffee on myself in the car on the way there. I remember you upgrading our plane tickets home to be first class because we could and because life is short.

I remember fighting with you over and over again because we’re each opinionated and because I firmly believe that we were put together in this life to help each other grow, and learn. And I believe that because you have taught me more than almost anyone else in this big, wide, beautiful world.

I remember partnering with you and working hand-in-hand to care for someone else who needs our help. We share her trust and trust in each other, and I treasure that because it’s rare.

And I remember loving you, always.

These are words but they are not just words. They are a promise. This year I’d like to promise to listen more than I speak. I promise to create more opportunities for shared experiences. And I promise to try to laugh with you as often as possible.

Why? Because I want to be able to write more letters with more memories, and the only way to create new memories is to continue to have conversations, to share experiences, and to light up our lives.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.