The Hardest Goodbye

 

My dad, John—
hands smelling like sawdust and sweat,
measuring the world twice before cutting once.
Jamaican sun in his blood,
Alabama red clay in his bones,
a man who knew how to build things that lasted
even when life kept shaking the ground.

He worked.
God, how he worked.
Six kids carried on his back like a quiet promise,
school shoes, books, futures—
nailed together with long days and short nights.
A carpenter, yes,
but also a builder of belief,
teaching us that dignity comes from showing up
even when nobody claps.

He laughed softly.

He cursed, and ribbed jokingly.
He listened hard.
He didn’t ask for much,
just peace—
and the chance to breathe without words cutting deeper
than any blade he kept in his toolbox.
I felt the weight of that trouble on his chest,
saw how it pressed him smaller,
how love can still hurt a good man.

Milwaukee took him from us,
in his own home,
too quiet, too final.
The kind of ending that doesn’t make sense
no matter how many times you replay it.
The hardest goodbye
is the one that happens without warning,
without a chance to say,
“Look, Dad—look what you made possible.”

I told you I wanted the arts,
remember?
You nodded like it was already done.
In 2024, I stepped into the light for real—
a legitimate actor,
standing on a dream you never laughed at,
never tried to shrink.
I wish you could’ve seen me breathe that moment in.
I wish you could’ve seen
how much of you I carried with me onto that stage.

Life is rough now.
I know you knew it would be.
I’m a dad too,
learning every day how to be softer, stronger, better—
trying to pass down courage instead of pain,
patience instead of silence.
Some days I get it wrong.
Some days I hear your voice anyway,
steady, reminding me to keep building.

I miss you.
I wish you could see me now.
But when I hold my child,
when I choose love over anger,
when I keep going even when I’m tired—
I feel you nodding again,
like it was already done.

​

- JOMO