Watching Father of the Bride,
and without warning
you arrive again.
Not loudly—
just a tightening in my chest,
a pause where laughter should be.
I wish you were here, Papa,
to roll your eyes at the sentiment,
to sit quietly and stay anyway.
The screen fills with fathers and daughters,
with letting go, with love,
and suddenly I am holding your absence
like something fragile.
I miss you—
not in the past tense,
but right now,
as if love never learned
how to leave.
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