When I think of my dad, I think being so little with strong shoulders beneath me, carrying me high above the world on our walks. The safest place I ever knew.

I think of his voice, steady and sure, tossing out phrases like “Keep on truckin’.”
Sturdy hands flecked with paint.
I think of the nickname he gave me—Puk, or Pukster—Words that seemed like passing moments then, but now feel like tiny pieces of him, tucked into the fabric of my life.

I think of salty air and sunny afternoons at Redondo Beach Pier. He never packed me a bathing suit, but I never cared. I’d dive into the waves anyway, and he would just laugh, shake his head, and call me a fish. He never scolded, never tried to stop me—he just let me be wild and free, the way a child should be.

I think of our long road trips we’d go on. Hours o driving, listening my Backstreet Boys CDs on repeat. He never once complained. He just smiled, sang along, and let me have my moment. He always liked “as long as you love me”

It’s... Read more funny, the things you don’t realize when you’re a kid. Looking back now, I see it so clearly what a great dad he was. He raised me on classic rock and took me fishing. He taught me how to change a tire, and to drive his old Ford F-150—the same truck I used to get my license. And when I graduated high school, he handed me the keys to my very first car.

My dad was a proud man, hard working, and strong. When he loved someone he was proud to love them, and showed it. When you tell him “I love you” he’d always answer “I love you more”

And in the end, in our last moments together, I played him a song. He squeezed my hand, held my gaze, and reached up to hug me. He never let go—not for the entire song. Not even when the music faded.

My dad was my first love. He will always be my hero.
I hope I made him proud.
And so, alright, old man… I’ll keep on truckin’.

Love, your puk Read less

When I think of my dad, I think being so little with strong shoulders beneath me, carrying me high above the world on our walks. The safest place I ever knew.

I think of his voice, steady and sure, tossing out phrases like “Keep on truckin’.”
Sturdy hands flecked with paint.
I think of the nickname he gave me—Puk, or Pukster—Words that seemed like passing moments then, but now feel like tiny pieces of him, tucked into the fabric of my life.

I think of salty air and sunny afternoons at Redondo... Read more Beach Pier. He never packed me a bathing suit, but I never cared. I’d dive into the waves anyway, and he would just laugh, shake his head, and call me a fish. He never scolded, never tried to stop me—he just let me be wild and free, the way a child should be.

I think of our long road trips we’d go on. Hours o driving, listening my Backstreet Boys CDs on repeat. He never once complained. He just smiled, sang along, and let me have my moment. He always liked “as long as you love me”

It’s funny, the things you don’t realize when you’re a kid. Looking back now, I see it so clearly what a great dad he was. He raised me on classic rock and took me fishing. He taught me how to change a tire, and to drive his old Ford F-150—the same truck I used to get my license. And when I graduated high school, he handed me the keys to my very first car.

My dad was a proud man, hard working, and strong. When he loved someone he was proud to love them, and showed it. When you tell him “I love you” he’d always answer “I love you more”

And in the end, in our last moments together, I played him a song. He squeezed my hand, held my gaze, and reached up to hug me. He never let go—not for the entire song. Not even when the music faded.

My dad was my first love. He will always be my hero.
I hope I made him proud.
And so, alright, old man… I’ll keep on truckin’.

Love, your puk Read less