For better or worse, my dad was a man of few words—a minimalist when it came to conversation, you might say. He had this uncanny ability to condense an entire universe of thoughts into a single raised eyebrow or a well-timed grunt. It was equal parts frustrating and fascinating. It always made me feel like I was decoding a riddle whenever we talked—or, rather, whenever I spoke, and he responded with his signature monosyllabic style.

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I’d say, “How was your day, Dad?” and he’d reply with a noncommittal “Fine.” It wasn’t just “fine,” though. The tone, the pause before the word, the way he said it while reaching for the remote—it all carried subtext. Fine could mean anything from “It was a good day; I watched Big Bang Theory for hours on end” to “The world is crumbling, but let’s not get into it.”

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And yet, when he did speak, his words carried weight. A rare “I’m proud of you” could last me weeks, sometimes months, even. It was like finding a shiny penny on the sidewalk—small but significant, something you’d keep in your pocket to remind yourself that whatever you were going through wasn’t so bad. Over time, I learned to listen differently. To notice what his words failed to say or how he’d sit quietly on the phone while I rambled about my days in New York, reacting in all the right places. Every Wednesday, to be exact.

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While my dad was a man of few words, I, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop talking—usually at a speed that left him shaking his head in disgruntlement. Laura, you talk too fast. Slow down and get to the point. My rapid-fire rambling sometimes made him sigh or roll his eyes as he silently prayed for a pause. Yet, every now and then, I’d catch the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—almost like he was pleased that I had so much to say. Maybe in his own quiet way, he got a kick out of watching me fill up all the empty spaces he chose to leave unspoken.

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So, as we close this chapter and I launch into one more rapid-fire ramble, Dad, let me fill the silence the way I always have—tossing out words like confetti while you watch me with that mix of exasperation and amusement. Humor me, Dad; let me get it all out, one last time. If I could change anything, I’d make sure the story went on a little longer—or maybe it would be a different story altogether. But since I can’t, I’ll give you this moment instead: all my words, all at once.

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I wish I could write you a different story—one where every morning unfurls into a bright new beginning, and the afternoons glow with warmth. I’d gather all the joy I’ve ever felt and wrap it around you, so you’d know nothing but lightness in every breath. Picture streets lined with your favorite music and sunsets that last just a moment longer. In this story, there’d be no room for sorrow or worry—only an unending stream of happiness that carries you forward, day after day, with a heart that feels whole and at peace. 

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I wish I could write you a different story, one that wasn’t weighed down by conflict. If I could, I’d soften every harsh word that echoed through your childhood home, trading tension for the comfort you deserved. Maybe then, in the midst of all those voices, you’d finally have found your own—a quiet space to simply be. But we don’t get to reorder the past. All I can do now is gather up the pieces of memory and possibility, hoping to stitch them into a version of you that aches a little less. If I had my way, I’d weave peace into the chapters you never got to finish, so we could remember what might have been, rather than just the weight of what was.

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I wish I could write you a different story—one where the nights didn’t stretch on so dark, and you never felt the need to chase your troubles away with the kind of solace that only pulled you further from yourself. I wish your days hadn’t been weighed down by unspoken regrets and that every heavy silence could have been replaced by a chance to unburden your heart. But life doesn’t grant rewrites, does it? You lived as you felt you must, gathering your thoughts behind a wall no one could quite see over. And now, looking back, I find myself wondering what might have been if only there had been a gentler way to ease the storms that raged inside you.

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I wish I could write you a different story, one where you could reverse your choices. I’d keep the steady resilience, but erase the moments that left you feeling lost. Maybe then, the tension that lingered would soften, leaving room for a more forgiving path forward. But life doesn’t let us trade regrets for a clean slate. So I’m left imagining you unburdened by your mistakes, wondering how it all might have turned out if you could have just stepped back and chosen differently. 

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I wish I could write you a different story, but I can’t. Grief has a way of bringing every version of you into sharp focus all at once, layers I never knew how to peel back when you were here. You were kind and cold, loving and distant, inexplicably strong yet endlessly fragile, all rolled into one—and sorting through all these pieces now feels like trying to thread a needle in the dark. God, you were so complicated, Dad. I want to find a way to weave your contradictions into something that makes sense, but the truth is, maybe it never will. All I know is that in remembering you, I’m forced to hold every part of you at the same time, and that’s both the hardest and the most honest thing I can do.

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Grief is messy, and so often, it tends to be unforgiving. I thought if I ignored it, turned away from its shadow creeping closer, it might lose interest and leave me alone. But grief is patient. It waits until you’re out of distractions, until the walls you’ve built are too thin to hold it back. And now it’s here, no longer a looming threat but an undeniable presence, demanding to be felt. There’s a strange relief in finally letting it in, though—a quiet sense of release that comes when you stop fighting and allow yourself to feel every bit of the ache. And maybe that’s the catch: sometimes, the only way to outrun the pain is to stop running altogether. Or, in the words of my dad: Slow down and get to the point. 

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This grief is forcing me to process every facet of who you were all at once—parts of you that were gentle, parts that were difficult, and everything in between. And in the middle of sorting through that tangled web, I’ve realized something: despite all our differences, you and I share one defining trait—we both like to be in control. Yet here I am, completely unable to dictate how these memories unfold or how the sorrow settles. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Both of us clutching at the edges of life, trying to hold it steady, only for me to discover, after you’re gone, that control was always an illusion. Now, all I can do is carry these contradictions—yours and mine—and hope that, in some strange way, this acceptance is the real measure of love.

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I wish I could rewrite your story, but what I know I can still do, is rewrite the ending. I can’t undo your choices or erase the chapters that still linger in the air like echoes of who you were, with all your layered complexities. But I can decide how I carry them forward—how I stitch together the tender memories and the harder truths to create a legacy that feels both honest and hopeful. In revising my own last page, I get to honor you as you were—flawed yet loved so much that it hurt—and choose a path that finds its footing in acceptance rather than regret. Maybe I can’t change where we’ve been, but I can shape what comes next.

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So, Dad, wherever you are, I hope you’ve finally found the happiness you spent so long chasing.  I hope wherever you are, you’ve found the comfort that eluded you in life. I hope Abu (my grandmother) was waiting for you with open arms, a seat beside her, all warmed up and ready. In my mind’s eye, I see you two sitting together, catching up on everything lost between hellos and goodbyes. It makes me smile to think of you surrounded by the same gentle comfort you once shared so sparingly, but so profoundly. If there’s any justice in this world or the next, I hope you’ve discovered it. I hope that, wherever you are, there’s a sense of balance and wholeness—like all the scattered pieces of your life finally came together in a place where you could breathe easy. Maybe you’ve found a quiet corner among the stars, a space that listens without judgment, offering forgiveness you never quite accepted while you were here. And maybe, in that silence, you’ve come to realize the love that trailed after you, even when it seemed lost in the chaos. If there’s any mercy in the universe, I pray it’s wrapped you in its arms and given you the peace you searched for all along.

Even if you’re not here, I’m still squeezing your hand twice. I love you, I love you. It’s strange how something so simple can feel like the most important thing left to say. I catch myself closing my eyes and imagine you’re next to me; your quiet presence is as steady as ever, and I remember all the unspoken words and undone things. But I hold on to that small gesture—a double squeeze, a silent promise—because even though you’re gone, my love still finds its way to you. It always will.

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So, I guess this is it. There’s nothing left to rewrite—no more chapters I can tug back from the past. I’m left with all the fragments of who you were: the man of few words, the storm of contradictions, the quiet witness to my endless chatter. And still, I find I have so much more to say. Maybe that’s the final lesson—accepting that some stories don’t get tidy endings. Instead, they weave themselves into our hearts, holding on through every breath we take, embedded into the strongest parts of us. I wish I could share just one more thought with you and hear one more of those low murmurs in response. But since I can’t, I’ll keep this moment, this double squeeze, and all the love bound up in it. Even now, I’m holding your hand in my own way, hoping that wherever you are, you feel it just as surely as if you were standing beside me. It’s a strange kind of finality, but it feels almost peaceful to let the story close here.

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Even so, I’m still squeezing your hand twice. I love you, I love you. And as for me, I’ll keep going—taking what I’ve learned and trying my best to continue writing the story. Keep an eye on me, okay? When you see me talking a mile a minute, I hope you’re up there smirking and saying (as you would), ‘Watch out for the youngest—she’s small but feisty. She’s got a mind of her own; she’s a fighter.’ Maybe that’s how I’ll know you’re still around—I’ll feel you holding back an eye roll at my rapid-fire chatter, quietly coaxing me forward no matter how fast I’m going. 

Thank you, Dad, for all of it. I love you, I love you.