His Kind of Love

I am my father’s daughter — quiet when it matters, loud when it doesn’t, loyal like a bruise that never fades. He was a man of few words and too many beers, a homebody with calloused hands who built his love from paychecks, plywood, and patched fences. He didn’t say much, but he never let us go without. We all worked with him — held tools before toys, learned to measure twice, cut once, and use what we had to make what we needed. He handed me a hammer like it was a promise. Taught me how to build things that wouldn’t fall apart. And somehow, that became a kind of love too. He taught me the stillness of fishing — how to listen for the pull, how to wait without wanting too much. He showed me rivers the way some fathers show their daughters cathedrals. And when I stand near water now, he’s the first name that echoes back. His anger could shake the walls, but his lessons still hold: Don’t waste. Don’t lie. Always bait your own hook. I used to sit in the passenger seat of his silence, learning how love doesn’t always speak, but shows up every morning with boots on and something heavy in its hands.