I hope you dance.

As a child, my father tucked me each night. "Goodnights" were promises, a hall pass for rest until morning's light. 

Six years ago, he passed away unexpectedly. I was 22, a newly minted college graduate living in Connecticut. 

In that moment, my childhood ended, but time still felt additive - with each day and month and year gone by, I was simply another day and month and year older than the woman that my father knew. But it's starting to feel qualitatively different. I'm not just older any more. My dad doesn't know me - my thismoment dreams or fears, worries and purpose. 

But I know my dad. Humble, committed, playful - he lived. How he lived- asking questions, talking to strangers, body surfing through the ocean waves. And he always hoped that I would dance. Tonight, I danced for him. 

I can't ask him for help but I'm not on my own. My dad's lessons live on in the hope that he instilled in me. I need to trust wholeheartedness and love, because that's what my dad did.

I miss you, dad.