I'm not going to write about losing trust, or losing hope, on account of losing my first love. I'm not going to write about some boy hurting me—even though, oh God, does it still hurt. I'm not talking about a romance gone wrong. I'm not here to lament over watching a boy lose interest in me. I'm here to talk about someone I still admire and think about. I'm here to write about a man, not a boy. I'm here, writing this, to tell you about my dad.

People often say a girl's first love is her father. In that case, I lost my first love at an age much earlier than any little girl should know the meaning of the word loss.

Rewind to an unknown date, sometime prior to Nov. 15, 2000. It's nighttime, and my mom is with my two older brothers at Rec Basketball practice. I'm home, with my older sister and my dad. I remember walking into the kitchen, and my dad sitting at the head of the table and he smiled at me. It's probably close to my bedtime, seeing I'm only three or four years old, but my dad helps me to the table and secretly gives me a few Twizzlers.

Maybe this memory seems insignificant, but to me it means so much. It's my very first memory. And it's my very last—and only—concrete memory of my dad.

Fast forward a little bit, to the day it happened. Nov.15, 2000. I remember this day more clearly--coming downstairs in the morning to my relatives gathered around our family room table. They all looked sad, and I remember not really understanding why. I remember my aunt asking me if I still wanted to go to pre-school that day, and shaking my head no, mostly excited that I got a say in the matter.

I remember the days that followed--spinning around in my kitchen in my pink floral dress that I would wear to my father's wake. It had a sewn-on-sweater that I excitedly showed off to my older cousins because it looked like a separate garment, but really wasn't. I remember being babysat by a cousin during the nighttime wake, and making cookies and filling rubber gloves with soda, and laughing the whole time.

But I don't really remember my dad, and that's the hardest part.

It's something I think about daily, and try to pick apart. Part of me knows the science behind it--that most people don't form their first memories until around age three or four. But the part of me that always wants more finds it hard to believe there's only one night I can clearly remember. I find it hard to believe that the more consistent memories start at age four and a half, and the day after my father passed away. A part of me will always think that I suppress memories due to the tragedy, but I guess I'll never really know for sure.

It's hard for me every year as November 15th approaches. I can remember the first year the date really affected me—in the fourth grade when I started crying in the middle of class on the anniversary. But I still don't remember my dad. Being so young at the time of his death has left me unable to fully grasp the concept. In return, I feel like I'm sometimes almost cold to the idea. The first time someone loses a close loved one is an incredibly hard experience, and more often than not leaves them more empathetic to those going through the same thing. For me, I feel the opposite. At age four I could hardly comprehend the concept of letters, let alone the fact I would never see my dad again. I didn't understand what was happening and have never seemed to have a full grasp. The date was never a huge deal to me as a result, until the fourth grade when I guess I started to finally understand the severity of what I experienced at such a young age. Before this, I only really remember feeling left out more than anything when we would make arts and crafts for father's day in elementary school. Even this wasn't exactly the feeling of loss, more of being ostracized by the fact I had no one to make a coloring page for.

I'll never know what it's like to be Daddy's little girl, and I've never attended the coveted grade school Daddy-Daughter Dance. Neither of those things really matter, but when my family shares memories of my dad, I can never contribute and that is what hurts the most.

Despite the major component I lacked from the traditional childhood, I have a family that makes it hard to feel like I'm missing out. Tough times are a catalyst in bringing people together, and I can say this is especially true for my family. My siblings are my closest friends and confidants, and there is never a dull moment in my house. I will always brag about my two-in-one Mom--a parent who fills the role of a mother and a father. I will celebrate my mom on Father's day for making me never feel a lack in my life, as I also mourn my dad. I have been incredibly blessed with the people and things I do have in my life, and while I miss my dad, I know that I have a connection with my family that some people do not.

So this year marks my fifteenth year without my dad. Almost 80% of my life has been lived without this prominent figure in my life. I may not have a ton of memories to help on this especially hard day, but I have my one, and that's enough. I have the stories I've been told by my family that prove what an admirable man my dad was. I've been told just how much traffic his wake and funeral caused, and the line that wrapped around the funeral home that proves what a great person he was. My mom always tells me that my dad could walk into a room full of strangers, and leave with each other of them being his friend. I can confidently say my dad was a great man and a fantastic father. I know how much he loved me and my three siblings. I will live every day for my dad, and hope I'm making him proud.