I dreamt about you again last night. You were talking to me from the edge of the bed. I sat upright, and you hugged me tight as I cried and cried into you. I felt safe and secure like fading memories and I woke up wiping the sleep away.

The only time I’ve shed tears since you died is when I’ve stood by your grave, where I felt your presence near, the closest I’ll ever get, and said all the things I can’t say to anyone else. Conversations that could last forever.

I hope you’re watching over and I hope you’re proud of me. I have not become my father, even when I’ve wanted to be. Not even when other people have wanted me to play that part. I have never compromised on the salvation you gave.

See, I just wanted to become a man you could be proud of, but I often feel that I have failed in achieving that. The day you died is the day I became this way, I was only young and had no idea that things would always be the same.

I can’t tell you how often I’ve wanted to kill myself, but the disappointment I know you would feel, has often been the only thing to save my life. To see you on the other side is my idea of heaven, but I’ll wait my turn.

If I live a long and healthy life, please always know, that seeing you again will make me cry.