Dear Dad,

I don’t know if it’s the weather, but I can’t seem to sleep, so I made myself some tea. You never liked the cold weather much, either. You were always downstairs near the fireplace in the winter. I used to come down with my blanket and curl up there with you. It’s the Lebanese in us; we weren’t meant to handle this kind of weather, so we always chase the sun. Holding hot beverages and warm conversations, we spent nights that I will never get back. It’s strange, but as I sit here, cup in hand, I swear you are sitting across from me, laughing your loud laugh as I tell you about my latest nonsense.
Do you remember that conversation we had that one night about how I told you I hate writing because nothing I ever wrote seemed to be enough, like it was never really done? You told me that lots of true artist will never really know when something is done, they will overanalyze it for hours, never satisfied. You always believed in me from Day One; I was the ‘Little Artist.’

I once made a painting of a fetus and you loved it, but I hated it, and I told you I was going to light it on fire. You told me, “That would be a controversial statement to make,” at a time during debates about the legalization of abortions. You always knew the perfect snarky comment for all my melodramatic rants. I never thought I would miss that, but I do.
I hope you’re playing music and drinking wine somewhere sunny and warm. I don’t know if I believe in an afterlife, but it’s comforting to think about you in a positive way. I guess that’s how religion became popular… Once, you told me you believed you were a priest in a past life and you had no interest in doing that again. I told you I thought I was in the mafia and that’s why I could never get into The Sopranos or any of those mob-related movies you loved.
I wonder what you’ll be in your next life, or if I’d get to meet you again. I’d love the chance to get to meet you again, but I’m not so sure how I would feel about you. You were always very controversial, which, don’t get me wrong, I respect, but I don’t know how we would have played out if you weren’t my father. I mean, most of the time, you walked around in nothing but your underwear and wouldn’t shower. You would rant about things, like how lawyers are all evil, doctors are ‘sheep’ paid by pharmaceutical companies, how the government commercializes things as ‘good for you’ that are just cheap for them to produce. I would like to think I would be your friend if maybe you weren’t so abrasive, or maybe just put on some pants and showered.
People say I’m a lot like you, though. I think that’s because I spent so much time with you that your words and mine almost feel the same. I mean, we spent hours talking about Health, Art, Music, Spirituality, The Government, and everything in-between. It would have been impossible not to pick up some of your mannerisms. Sometimes, when I ask you a question, I feel like I know your answer; I just wish you could say it. I wish you could be with me at the diner, drinking tea at 2AM like we used to…

…but you can’t anymore.

I miss you, Dad.

I feel so alone…

…and it’s cold and all you left me with is this damn Lebanese heritage that can’t handle the cold. Well that, and a whole lot of memories. I am so thankful that you were my dad, but sometimes being thankful isn’t enough to keep you from feeling sad. Maybe I’ll just move South like you always wanted to, somewhere warm where the sun always shines. That would be nice.
Anyways, have a good night, Dad. I love you.

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