Good morning, Cicely.

This morning’s not about the moose trotting through Main Street or Ruth-Anne’s weather report. This morning’s about something quieter. Heavier. More sacred.

This morning’s about my dad.

He was a doctor. Not the kind you see in movies, with perfect answers and heroic music swelling in the background. No, my dad was the kind who stitched you up with fingers that shook slightly from exhaustion, the kind who worked long shifts and sometimes came home with the weight of other people’s pain still clinging to him like a second coat. The kind who carried more than he ever let on.

He made mistakes. Lord knows he did. Dads aren’t gods, and sometimes they don’t know how to say sorry. But he was there. Not always in the way I wanted, but in the way I needed. Solid. Present. And when the chips were down, when the world came crashing in, he never turned his back on me. Ever.

He was my biggest fan, even when I was fumbling my way through life like a blindfolded man in a glass shop. He never laughed at my dreams—even the crazy ones like coming up to Alaska and whispering poetry through a mic to a bunch of insomniacs and ice fishermen. He didn’t always understand it. But he never stopped believing in me.

And now he’s gone.

And I’d give just about anything for one more cup of coffee with him. One more walk around the block. One more quiet moment where I could say, “Hey, Dad. I know now. I understand. Thank you.”

But there’s no rewind button. No encore performance.

All I’ve got now are echoes.

The way I clear my throat before I speak—that was his. The way I place my hand on someone’s shoulder when they’re going through it—that was his too. His presence shows up in the most unexpected ways, like a scent on the wind, or the sound of a song I didn’t know I needed until I heard it.

And maybe that’s the secret. Maybe the people we lose never really leave us. Maybe they just become part of the air we breathe. Part of the way we live.

So if you’re listening this morning, and you miss your dad too… I’m with you.

And I think they’re with us.

In the quiet strength we carry. In the love we give. In the lives we build from the scaffolding they left behind.

This is Chris in the Morning, son of a flawed and beautiful man who did his best—and loved me the best way he knew how.