Wiping the tears off my eyes, I thought,
In so many of my years in the world,
My dad did not know I write stories. 
It never occurred to me to tell him,
Or show him my stories;
But then I thought,
What would be different if my dad knew?

That a day would come,
When he would not be by my side,
I’ll miss him so much,
It had never even crossed my mind.
Only now do I realize,
The gentleman I called Dad,
Meant just so much to me.

But I am sure, if my dad knew I write stories,
He would be proud of me and tell his friends,
“That’s my daughter!”
Who is also an author;
Or would he just smile and show
Subtly that he loved me ever so more,
Never openly revealing emotions
Just a silent look, a small pat, or just a reassuring smile?