I don't know where to begin. The truth is, I don't know if there are enough words to start with. It's like I'm eleven again, being asked by my elementary school teacher to write an essay about my childhood hero. Only this time, the hero is real. This time, spelling mistakes exist only in my imagination.
But now I have a choice to make. I can either choose to do this the usual way or I could tone it down a little until every ounce of true emotion is squeezed right through. Let's see how this goes. (Disclaimer: Permission to use insipid vocabulary has not been granted.)
I feel him sometimes, in the morning, kissing my forehead before he goes to work. And I, I just lie there pretending to be asleep, savouring the moment like a girl opening up presents on Christmas Day. If only I knew how to think my thoughts out loud. But no, hiding behind well-thought-of sentences is foolishly easier. So I do that. I am doing that.
His spoken silence is heartwarming. He manages to always say the right things at the right time, usually followed by a few milligrams of witty wisdom. I love that about him. He gives and gives without ever expecting anything in return. And like I said, words are not enough. They never are. They never will be.
Besides, when you live with someone for so long, sometimes, you end up ignoring all the little things they do for you. Until you finally realise that what you need is right there in front of you, in the exact same place you left it. It never moved. It's always there. So you grab on to it tightly, never wanting to let it go.
Just like that baby girl holding her father's index finger for the very first time, feeling his warm chest against her forehead, the same sleepy forehead he kisses twenty-two years later before he goes to work as he whispers in his thoughts those three overly repeated heartfelt words.
The same eight letters I meaningfully entwine for his fifty-first birthday.
Dad, My Hero, My Superman..
.. I Love You.
.. Thank You.