thirteen years today.

you’d think it would feel smaller by now. quieter. more manageable. like it’s something you get used to. like background noise you forget how to turn off.

but if there’s one thing i’ve learned since july 18, 2012, it’s that time doesn’t smooth things out. it just makes the sharp edges feel normal.

this year is lucky number 13. and maybe lucky is the right word, in a way only he would understand.

i wrote a book.

not just talked about writing it. not just scribbled pieces here and there. i wrote the whole thing. and i know exactly what he would have said. he would have bragged like he had something to do with it. “that’s my daughter.” same energy he had telling people i could play piano, even though i quit after three lessons. details were always optional when it came to his pride.

he would have loved it. not because it’s neat or polished or makes me look good. because it’s sharp. messy. real.

thirteen years of figuring out how to say things he isn’t here to hear.

thirteen years of learning how to carry him forward without turning him into a statue.

because my dad wasn’t a statue. he was a pain in the ass. he was certain. he was alive in the way most people only pretend to be.

so yeah. lucky number 13.

i get to say things now i wouldn’t have known how to say when he was still here.

i get to write a whole book that feels like sitting across from him, coffee in hand, telling him the latest story and waiting for him to say exactly the thing i didn’t know i needed to hear.

still waiting.

still writing anyway.