Literature
The Cruelty of Silence
I can only remember telling my dad I loved him twice. That does not mean love was absent. That is the part that makes it hurt in a different way. It would almost be easier if the silence meant there was nothing there. If the distance had been cold. If there had been no love underneath it. But that was not the truth. I loved my dad. I know he loved me. It just did not come out very often. Not in words. Not directly. Not in the way I understand now that people need to hear while they are still alive.
When I was a teenager, I remember thinking more than once that I needed to tell him. I knew it even then. Some part of me understood that there was something missing, something I wanted to say and should say, but I could not get it past my own fear. I was scared he would think I was weak. I do not know why I believed that. He probably would not have thought that at all. He probably would have loved to hear it. Maybe he would have been awkward. Maybe he would have said it back quickly and
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