When he started a blog, I wanted to write about that.
When he looked like never before (in a handsome way), at my wedding, I wanted to write about that.
When I forced him into over-shopping for himself, I wanted to write about that.
When we gleefully over-eat, I want to write about that.
When we got those sweat-belts and tracks for our gym, I wanted to write about that.
When he digs out books and articles out of nowhere for me, I want to write about that.
When I see him acting and not instructing and advising, I want to write about that.
When he explains every little detail of simplest things sending us into fits of laughter, I want to write about that.
When he nods and smiles and understands every change in the world, I want to write about that.
When I cut my hair to look like him, I wanted to write about that.
When we fight over different opinions, I want to write about that.
When he taught me to write, I couldn’t write about that.

But all ‘that’ just dissolves when I write: Love you Dad.

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