I hear you. My ears are bleeding from the sound of silence coming from you. The sound of nothing from your lips as you lie on the white silk. I hear you as you spoke those words of wisdom to me when I was younger. I hear you as you spoke to your lieutenant about the steps that should be taken to prevent the next mass shooting in Louisville. I see your face change from laughing in the living room to shame as the next shooting in the West End of Louisville has taken place. I hear you in those songs that describe you and everything that was, you. I hear your body fighting to live as the bullet went through your chest. I hear you, as the officers give you your last call and the thin blue line in your heart is lowered into the grave.

I feel you. I feel you in every trout that I catch on summer days and every Coors Light that makes its way into a summer night. I feel you checking on me when I’m lying in the dark at night trying to get sleep. I feel you when you touch my shoulder when I’m about to snap and need my grandpa. I feel you when I’m stuck in this classroom wanting to be at the lake house, waiting for you to come up the hill with a stringer full of fish for a late dinner. I feel your heart break as you catch a bullet and know in that moment you will not get to see me grow up into the other version of you.

I smell you. I smell you when I wake up on a warm summer morning with coffee in my hand on the back porch looking at the river. I smell you when I pull into the Rock road and smell the river water flowing with the rainbow trout swimming with the current. I smell you in every large sweatshirt I put on that was yours. I smell you on the back porch when the trout is being cooked and we’re all gathering our days’ worth of goodies that we’ve picked up along the way. I smell you sitting around the bonfire on a summer night with the freshly cut field in the heat of July. I smell you as all these smells fade away in the cold dirt.

I taste you. Yes, I taste you. Every trout has a memory of you. Every taste of a beer on those warm summer nights. Don’t ever cross that line. I taste you every time I eat at the table in the house and every time I feel the heat of the summer drip my sweat onto my lips. I taste you in the words that I say that remind me of you. (“Real fisherman kiss the fish”). I taste you in the good home cooked meals made after a good days work. I taste you as I swallow my pride and let you go into another life without us.

I see you. All the time, oh, do I see you. Every look my dad has is you. I see you in every paper I write as it always seems to link back to you. I see you when I’m sleeping and you come alive in my dreams and my mind isn’t overwhelmed with silence. I see you in the old beat up truck my dad and I refuse to get rid of. (Even though I can barely drive it). I see you when I walk in the front door of the lake house and when I’m rushing through the back door to get a knife and run back down to the river to fish. I see you as I make the drive down to your place and pass all those old dirt roads. I see you as I look up and you’re standing there, yes you’re standing there and I know that you aren’t, and it’s my imagination getting the best of me.

I understand what you’re saying. I have graduated high school and am starting my life. I hear you as you tell me to mind my own business and not to try to change something I have no control over. I understand that allowing myself to be mad I am giving that person control over me. I understand your words you’re teaching me as I grow up into your granddaughter who is a spitting image of you. I get it. 10-4.