Dad.

Dear Dad,

Some time ago, a friend of mine sent me this 30 Day Letter Challenge thing, where everyday you write one letter to whomever or whatever they tell you to send it to. Next to Day 11, it said 'A deceased person you wish you could talk to'. I wouldn't have written one except for the latter half of that, because to this day I really wish I could show you the swell of things in my heart that I've needed to say, that I've needed to share.

Nobody will understand the dynamic we've had over our years together as family, that's why I've given up trying. I barely talk about you at all and I can feel the sting of having you around in the past numbing the few times I do talk about you. That dynamic between us, it was different. I can chalk it up as something every first generation Korean immigrant has with their child, especially with their son, for the sake of making it a little easier to digest, but ours was more than just a pride issue. It was more than your fear to be vulnerable. The psychological damage was more than I could handle at any moment. Your words tore like yanking barbed wire wrapped around my heart. I cringe when your friends say I look like you and I pray that the resemblance is only skin deep, but it's a constant reminder that your words, your neglect, and your ignorance will be as indelible to me as our last names.

And yet, I believe in miracles, because of what your passion birthed to me on a daily basis. I respect you for the strides you've taken to provide, but I curse you for the damage you left beneath your feet. And what haunts me sometimes is the possibility that you left this family long before you died. Work can never be an excuse, dad. Ever. Work and family may be interdependent, but they are certainly not symmetrical.

You've given me an opportunity that's so invaluable and it's something that I am so proud of, but I can't help focusing on the things you've denied me. Insecurity-ridden childhoods aside, you couldn't even give me the satisfaction of proving you wrong. I'm going to be somebody one day and every single milestone I bleed for will always be a question, the coldest of uncertainties, of your approval. And yet, you were quiet. About everything. Too quiet. Which is odd, because you're the loudest and funniest guy your friends know. I'm scared that I've accidentally learned how to be silent from the best. Maybe it wasn't our words, maybe it was our intentions, our directions, our silences that were lost in translation.

But, like many other things, I will never know.

Your son,
Daniel