This is one letter I hope you never write.

Dear Dad,

I regret not giving you this letter personally some 26 years ago. I guess I thought someone like you would be around forever. I was wrong.

It’s about this time of year that I tend to think about you more. Not only is Father’s Day upon us, but it was also mid-June when I lost you in 1990. Or, at least, you were physically gone then. Because I still sense you with me. Your words, as few as they were and steeped in Italian-Americanisms, remain sufficient to stop me on occasion and cause me to think, and smile.

You vowed that you would make it in this country. And you did. Sure, by the world’s standards, you were poor and uneducated. By my standards, you were brave and brilliant.

You had to leave high school at 14 to work the family’s farm, your dreams of law school shattered. I know you worked multiple jobs for no other reason than you wanted to provide more for us children than you had. I would hear you leave at 5:30 AM, and I counted myself fortunate to see you before bedtime. I also know there were many times when money was very tight, but you would keep that reality from us. None of us lacked a thing; you saw to that.

On Sunday, the one day of the week when you were not working, you would get us all up early for a big breakfast before church. And though you had plenty of fix-it jobs around the house that day, you always found time (I don’t know how) to go out back and throw the ball around with us. Family to you, was — well - family.

You were the one person among all our relatives (including your 11 siblings) that everyone turned to. No matter the day, time or circumstance. If someone was in need, you were called because you were the one who could be 100 percent counted on. I was always in awe of your compassion. Even your heart attack years before your death occurred when you were helping others.

What I appreciate the most about you, Dad, was what you taught me. When you were criticized by narrow-minded neighbors for taking in a black family in need, you replied, “What color is my blood? What color is their blood?” You were humble and bold at the same time; devoted and rebellious at the same time; kind and relentless at the same time; just and forgiving at the same time.

Although you were known to be quiet and shy, I knew your mind was always racing. Your voracious appetite for reading was a simple reflection of your intelligence. Your devotion to Mom was a lesson to us all in love. Your commitment to God and the church was, for me, the greatest gift you ever gave me.

Dad, you are the stick with which I measure the greatness of a man. I will carry you with me until the day I die.

Thank you, Dad. I love you. Your son,

Bob

p.s. I’m so sorry I didn’t give this to you.