His hair was so soft, I remember thinking.

It’s amazing the little things you notice sometimes. In the middle of a cold and sterile operating theater, my heart weighing like a thumping chunk of lead in my chest, my breath as cold as ice, the one thing that stood out was how soft my father’s hair was.

My sister hadn’t been able to enter the room, and I can’t blame her. I almost turn and ran myself the moment I saw his motionless form on the table. But I knew I had to go in, that I had to face the reality of the moment, or I would never be able to accept the truth.

I’d never seen it coming. I mean, I knew he had to have some sort of examination, something about his life insurance requiring it. But when my girlfriend at the time woke me up, demanding to know who the number on my pager belonged to, something clicked inside of me, and I knew.

I called the number back, and a nurse at the hospital answered. I managed to get through to my mom, who told me my dad had gone “Code Blue” during the procedure, and that they were getting the crash cart for him. Or something like that, anyway, I don’t remember very well.

But my girlfriend, who was always jealous, didn’t hear any of that. All she heard was “What?” And “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

So, when I hung up the phone and started getting dressed she demanded to know where I was going.

Now, I hold nothing against her. I’d given her reason to be worried about my commitment to her in the past, but, at that point in time, I didn’t care about her feelings. I remember my words so clearly, as if they’ve been etched into my soul with God’s own laser.

“My dad’s dead on a hospital table and you’re acting like this now?”

She shut up instantly, and helped me find my clothes and keys. She came with me, as did my sister, who we picked up on the way. I missed one turn, ended up five minutes later than we would have been there otherwise.

Five minutes after they told my mom.

We walked into the waiting room, and the first words out of my mom’s mouth shattered me.

“He’s dead.”

My sister collapsed, and I put my arms around both of them, trying to give them the comfort I so desperately wanted myself. But they needed me to not cry, not yet. I had to be strong enough to ask the question of the doctor I never thought I’d ask.

“How did it happen?”

They explained that he’d suffered a heart attack during the exam, and that they’d been unable to revive him. And then I asked another impossible question.

“Can we see him?”

They led us down the halls, in an elevator, and down a few more halls to the operating theater. My sister couldn’t go in, but I knew what my dad would have wanted me to do. Face it, accept it, learn from it, and move on.

So I stepped in. The room was cold, colder than I expected. Bright lights, and sterile instruments. Someone, a nurse perhaps, stepped up next to me, and I noticed that a piece of gauze was placed over my dad’s left eye. The person removed it, and I saw the glazed gaze of a body with no soul left in it.

The person seemed to fumble for a moment, as if afraid to close the eyelid, so I stepped forward, almost pushing them away. I reached out a trembling hand, and closed the eyelid, the slightly cool skin sending horrific shivers through me. Not from the touch itself, but from the act.

I remember thinking, “Now he’s asleep. He looks like he’s asleep.”

I put my hand to his head, stroking his hair, amazed at the softness of it. I wanted to say something, words that could express the pain and anger and soul-destroying grief that was beginning to consume me. Words that could blacken the sun and pull the stars from their heavens, ending the world for everyone, as my own had ended for me.

I opened my mouth, feeling the power lashing through me, and I said, “I love you, Daddy.”

That was when the tears fell. I stroked his hair, repeating those words softly, so softly that I was sure no one else could hear them. But I knew he could, somewhere in my heart. No matter what his beliefs, or mine, I somehow knew he could hear them.

That thought stiffened my spine a little, and I used my other hand to wipe the tears away. I let my hand rest against his head, touching the hair I hadn’t felt since I was a little boy. Physical affection had been rare between us, though the understanding of our love had always been obvious. We had never used words or action, but we both simply knew what we felt about each other.

But my life, my world, the foundation of my universe had been taken away. I closed my eyes, and whispered, one last time, “I love you, Daddy.”

I turned away, to help my family deal with the pain that had come.

Many years have gone by since that moment. I’ve found and lost love, I’ve been poor and affluent. I’ve gained friends, and seen others off to war. But I will always remember that moment.

Not for the pain. Not for the sense of loss. No for the crushing grief which even now haunts me at times. It was the softness of his hair…

I stood in the bathroom the other day, getting ready for work. I brushed my long hair out of my eyes, and I froze for a moment. Soft, almost like spider’s breath it seemed at the moment…

I looked into the mirror. The set of the eyes, the way the beard grew on my face, the laugh and frown lines beginning to form after thirty years of life. I didn’t see him in the reflection, but I his reflection in mine. His mark was on me, his life had touched mine at every level, and now, I was finally able to see it.

He’s never left my thoughts. Every day, I strive to make him proud of me, even though I knew he was. I work to be worthy of that pride, even though he never asked that of me. I reach out, to love as strongly as he was capable of, even though he showed me how so long ago.

Sometimes, I want him back more than anything in the world. Sometimes, in the dark of night, when my wife is asleep next to me, I’ll beg whatever powers there are to bring him back, if only for a moment. IF only so I could touch his hair, hear him laugh, see his smile.

And then I saw that reflection in the mirror. I realized that I had asked for the wrong thing, that my prayers had not gone unanswered, just answered in a way I hadn’t understood. In that face in the mirror, I didn’t see myself, or him.

I saw the line of my life, stretching back thirty years, back to the young medic in the US Air Force who had fallen in love with a young civilian woman. I saw the man who went hungry at times, or worked longer hours than he wanted, so he could provide for his newfound family. I saw the man who was confused as to how to raise children, but would never let it show. In those eyes I saw the determination to never let them down, to always do right by his wife and children, no matter the cost to himself.

A man who loved with more courage and passion and strength than most are willing to risk. I saw the man I had always wanted to be, but always felt I could never come close to.

I could almost hear his laughter at that point, calling my an idiot. I realized the most important lesson he had ever tried to teach me. It doesn’t matter what you do for a living, or how much money you make, or how many expensive toys you own.

Love is the answer. Not the simpering, flower-filled of the movies. Instead, it is the will and strength to sacrifice, the choice to give up, or to stand firm against all odds as is necessary for the ones you love. Of all the mistakes I can say he may have made in his life, I never saw him give up on us. He never gave up on me.

So I stood in front of that mirror for a long time, staring at the realization I’d found. He was within me, permeating me as easily as clouds fill the sky. I looked back at my life, and remembered all the times I’d wanted to give in, to surrender to the easier option, but never did. I always thought it was because I was just stubborn, but I suddenly knew that was only a part of the answer.

He’d taught me courage, strength, perseverance, and faith. Not faith of the religious kind, but the spiritual strength that makes a man stand up when he wants to fall, to keep fighting when he wants to surrender. I found the core of that strength in the reflection before me, the distilled essence of it.

As I write this, it is the anniversary of my mom and dad’s wedding. They were best friends, lovers, parents, counselors to each other, and confidantes. And, in some ways, I think they still are. He touched so many lives, as I’ve learned over the years, but the only one I can speak of clearly is my own.

He was more than the source of half of my DNA. He was the source of my courage and strength. He was my guiding light, my mentor, and my role model. I had thought, with him gone, I could never find such things again.

I’m married now, in love, and determined to do right by my wife and the children we will one day have. I will give anything for them, do anything for them. And now I know that my father is still with me. Not in my memories, but in my thoughts, in my actions, and in my heart.

He taught me the power of love without ever using the word. I wish I could tell him in person, but a part of me somehow knows he’s heard my soul speaking those words. I no longer need him to be here anymore, I merely want him to be.

He always loved me, in ways beyond expression. An emotion so deep, subtle, and powerful that mere physical or vocal expressions of it are impossible. And, at long last, I understand how that’s possible.

You don’t have to say it, or act like it. You don’t need gifts or flowers. You simply need to love, with all your being. You need to believe, to hold on to that faith, no matter the cost.

You never give up on love, and you never sacrifice that love. He showed me the way, and then put me on the path that took me many years to see. I have walked it far longer than I thought, but the first steps were made from his gentle push.

I am the man I am if only because he showed me how to be. His soul is in my reflection, and his love is in my heart.

I love you, Daddy.