I didn’t have enough time with you to remember a single cherished moment shared between you and my dad.

You live on in the shimmering diamond earrings your only son gave to his only daughter.

In the delicate china plate I cradle close, as if it holds a piece of you.

In the fierce way I stand up for myself, the way you would have taught me.

Your daughters tell me how overjoyed you were to finally have a granddaughter after five grandsons in a row.

They said you’d been waiting for me.

One of the only photos of you rested at the top of our staircase,

And every night, I never missed a chance to say goodnight to your still, smiling face.

I could feel the tidal wave of grief wash over my dad every time he said,

“I know you don’t remember her, but you would’ve loved her so much.”

Every fleeting moment, every milestone, I knew he wished you were there to see it.

And because of that, I ached for you too.

Now, 30 years have slipped by like shadows.

I’m six years older than my dad was when he lost you.

I visited him one day, and we were treading carefully—still navigating the edges of an argument.

As we said our goodbyes, a hummingbird floated off a flower and hovered toward me.

There you were, delicate and vibrant, fluttering in front of my face.

“It’s your gra—” he began to say.

“I know,” I interrupted, my voice breaking.

We stood there, clutching the moment as tightly as we could, knowing you were with us.

We hadn’t felt you near in so long.

How could something so small, so fleeting, take up so much room in my heart?