In spaces between us
Your last gift.
This Christmas feels different. Grief ambushes you when you least expect it when someone’s perfume matches your dead father’s signature scent in the detergent aisle. It catches you off guard like you’re small again, wrapped in one of those rare hugs that felt like promises.
Detergent bottles blur as my eyes sting, and strangers shuffle past, oblivious to the storm that you’re drowning in memories between the fabric softener and stain removers.
I remember chasing you down the road as you left for work, your motorcycle idling only once you were far enough away so it’s roar wouldn’t wake me. My small feet hitting the pavement, desperate to make you stay. That’s how you loved—quietly, from a distance, in the spaces you thought wouldn’t hurt.
Love with gaps in it teaches a peculiar kind of hunger—a longing that stretches over time and silence. I learned to exist in the in-betweens—between visits, between calls, between the father you were and the father I wanted you to be. Each reunion carried the weight of all the moments missed and the heavy unspoken words.
Your hazel eyes—amber fossils holding secrets I’ll never know—stare back at me every time I look in the mirror while I’m brushing my teeth. I see them everyday, that same sparkle, the same warmth.
Christmas lights mock with their reliable return, year after year. All I ever wanted was that same consistency in flesh and blood. The empty chair at holiday tables taught me to smile through absence, to wrap disappointments in bright paper and pretend it was enough.
I learned to love in fragments: the tenderness of your hands, the warmth of your fleeting presence, the genuine joy in your voice when you called. But I also learned love in the quiet devastation of waiting, in the math of my worthlessness when you didn’t show up. You taught me how to long for someone, how to fill the silence with hope.
And when you were gone, I searched for pieces of you in other men who would also leave. Love became something I chased, something that slipped through my fingers as if I was never meant to hold it.
But when you were here—really here—your love was endless. Your laughter filled the room, spilling over to strangers, making them smile even if they didn’t know the joke. It was impossible not to laugh with you. You had that rare magic of making the ordinary feel extraordinary. It made the world feel safe, even if only for a moment.
Now grief shadows me, standing in the corner of every new relationship, measuring love against the inevitability of loss. Your absence whispers in every goodbye, every “I’ll be back soon.” It’s in every fleeting moment of affection that reminds me of you, of how much I’ve learned to survive on crumbs.
This Christmas feels final, the "never again" tolling like a bell through every tradition and every empty space where possibility of you once lived. The lights don’t shine the same. No more “I’ll see you soon.” No more waiting. No more chances to rewrite the story.
Sometimes I catch myself reaching for the phone, wanting to tell you about my day, about how I’ve found someone who stayed, about how I’m trying to believe I’m enough. But all I get is silence now.
I miss you. I miss the possibility of you—the man I hoped you’d be, the father I needed.
I wear your vintage watch. I hold it sometimes, feel its weight, as if it could anchor me to a time when you were still here. The scratches on its face feel like the memories I keep trying to polish clean, even as they fade.
Our love, as complicated and imperfect as it was, still lives in my bones. Perhaps that’s your final gift: the reminder that even fractured, flawed love leaves its mark. It changes us, stays with us, and teaches us, long after the last goodbye.
