i miss you.

to my dad, and to his dad.

I must ask you a question:
is it possible to miss someone I have not met?
But I know I have met you.
I see you everyday,
in my father's face.
The way he speaks, the way he listens.

I have not met you,
yet I know you.
It's not a new feeling, but I like to think so.
In the stories I hear, I nod.
Of course, I say.
In the stories I write, I recognize you,
in the ones my dad tells.

I have not met you,
yet I know you.
You are in me,
in the family legacy
but also in my character.
I think we would have been friends.
Not talkative or always needful of social activity,
just wanting to sit and listen.
To take it all in and wait.
Ponder.

I have not met you,
yet I know you.
I wish you were here to take me driving,
to teach me to parallel park.
I wish you were here to read the newspaper
every morning, and to tease us.
Even in the way you had fun with your children,
so does dad have fun with us.
You are so missed.
I see it in Ammachi's hands;
she wants her husband back.

I have not met you,
yet I know you.
You now have three strong sons,
but you can probably see that from where you are.
They lead our family in strength,
and care for us in gentleness.
So I hear about you.
A quiet strength.
The kind where you stay behind the stage,
not getting the credit.
But when the curtain is pulled,
the crowd roars.
Everyone knew you.  You knew everyone.
But even better, you loved everyone.
And everyone loved you.

I have not met you,
yet I know you.
In your quiet way, you made time for others.
You went to them, helped them if you could, sat with them if you couldn't.
You made your mark on this world, and people still know you.
And maybe that, too, is how I know you.