I never asked to be this strong—

never wished for courage forged by surreal loss,

never dreamed I’d rise each day

still standing in the silence you left behind.

I never thought my eyes would open

to mornings after you vanished from this world,

or that my lungs would carry on.

I never imagined that frightened girl—

just seven, trembling in the front row of your funeral,

clutching grief in my tiny hands,

would become the woman I am today.

I never believed life could flow forward

with your laughter missing from its current.

I never thought the sun would dare to shine

the day you closed your eyes.

I never pictured growing up in shadow,

womanhood blooming without your love,

or writing these aching lines—each word

a measure of deep pain, a testament to enduring love.

I never had a choice—not when illness claimed you,

not when your death arrived, not when we buried you.

I survived your funeral, Daddy,

but I didn’t survive your death.

I love you,

Mimi Alem