It was about this time, ten years ago today, that I held your hand. That rough calloused hand that could never be still enough to heal. You were always doing for others, especially in your shop whenever you decided someone deserved to own one of your handmade knives.
We held your hands as you slipped away from the body that had become a prison. I knew it was the right thing to have done, to sign the paper that would let you go when it was time. But it made it no easier.
I would have given anything to have you back, healthy in body and mind.
I've needed you. I hope I've been able to make you proud.
I miss you, Dad.
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