Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way.
We are created by being destroyed.
I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)
I wish my father could be around.
Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?
The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.