I remember watching his hands. Thick, calloused knuckles stained with grease or paint from a long day’s work. Those hands never rested. They built the roof over my head, tightened the bolts on my bicycle, and wiped away tears I was too proud to admit I had.

Now, it means calling just to hear him grunt "uh-huh" on the other end of the line. It means showing up early to help with the yard work he can no longer do alone. It means telling him, "I love you," even when the words feel too big for the room.

Anything for the man who taught me how to stand, even when the world tried to knock me down.