(A Father's Story)
(Begin in a soft, measured voice. Gentle, reflective tone.)
I.
You came to me…
not with a cry…
but with a silence
that split the sky.
(Time slows here. Pause.)
The world… stood still.
Time—held breath.
My child…
you danced too close to death.
One moment—a shadow.
The next…
a flicker.
A gasp.
A battle begun.
And you rose… like dawn—
when there was none.
Doctors fought with hands and hearts…
and will.
You returned.
So small.
So still.
Not perfect—
no.
But purely… purely true.
My life…
began again…
with you.
II.
You didn’t bloom
like other flowers do.
No race to run.
No skies to blue.
Your steps… were slow.
Your gaze… unsure.
But oh…
your heart.
Your heart was pure.
(Pause.)
The world?
It measured you—
in inches missed,
in words not said,
in silence kissed…
But I…
I saw galaxies
dance behind your eyes.
Heard lullabies
in your quiet sighs.
You wouldn’t write
the same old tune…
but you hummed in key
with the gentle moon.
When music played—
your fingers stirred.
No speech…
but every note was heard.
A gaze at me—
and I could feel…
a kind of love
that makes you kneel.
III.
Some say “delayed.”
Some say “not quite.”
But child—
you are my northern light.
You burn not fast…
but endlessly—
a gentle, sacred mystery.
Your brother learned
to speak with signs.
Your mother sang
to match your rhymes.
And I?
I grew in ways unknown…
learning to love
from bone… to bone.
Each day with you—
a soft undoing
of pride,
of haste,
of worldly viewing.
IV.
You cannot run—
but you arrive.
In every room,
soulful… alive.
You cannot write—
but you inscribe
love in our days
with sacred vibe.
(Pause. Quiet awe.)
When your hand
finds mine—
without a cue…
the world aligns—
simple.
True.
V.
You taught me fear…
and then release.
That shattered hope
can birth deep peace.
You showed me joy
that breaks in light—
not from perfection…
but from fight.
(Pause.)
They called you “less.”
But they don’t see
the fire inside
your quiet plea.
The thread you weave
through every day—
in sideways laughs,
in music play.
VI.
You’ve become
the root and rain—
the balm
to all our unnamed pain.
You made our house
a place of prayer—
not of words…
but shared care.
Daughter…
you are my second birth.
My living lesson
in deepest worth.
Not a trophy child
to place on shelves.
But a mirror—
asking us
to delve…
(beat)
deeper into what we mean
when we call a soul
“whole”…
or “clean.”
VII.
I do not wish
for things undone.
Nor mourn the child
you might’ve become.
You are my star.
My tethered sun.
And in your eyes,
I see what’s pure.
If love had limbs—
it’d look like you:
imperfect, sacred,
always true.
Though the world
may not quite see
the miracle
you are to me—
I do.
We do.
And in the hush
before each sleep—
I thank the angels
we got to keep
your breath
on earth—
though faint,
and slow…
A soul
we weren’t meant
to let go.
VIII.
So here you are—
our fragile flame.
The girl who never
played the same.
Yet filled our hearts
with something more:
a love unmeasured…
rich, and raw.
(Pause. Let it sink in.)
Daughter…
you redefined
what strength looks like—
what love can find.
And if I had
to choose again—
between the safe…
and you?
(beat)
I’d open the door.
To this wild,
wondrous,
sacred ride—
with you
forever
by my side.
(End softly. Let the silence after the last word be part of the performance.)
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