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I've only seen my father cry twice in my life.
Once over my grammy, just after she passed away and once over my brother, and over how afraid he was of the world never loving and accepting such a kind soul.

We sat on the porch two nights ago.
This year was a strangely warm Christmas, in the 80s.
We had just had a really amazing Christmas, easily the first in three years.
Since the last time he had cried, since we lost Grammy in August of 2012.

It was just me and him. It had been years since either of us had taken the time to talk to each other like something more that roles in a family.

My pop is a tough cookie, literally the strongest guy I know and he knows that. He takes pride in the way my sister and I can't help but get glossy-eyed at his intelligence, his honesty, and his heart. We've been daddy's girls since day one, and I don't think that will ever change. Even in the moments I felt very disconnected from him, I never ever stopped believing that he was the only man in my life that mattered forever.

We talked about my dreams and my goals. I told him about how all I really want to do in this world is teach third world countries how to escape from the clutches of poverty, teach them about their natural resources and how they can profit from them. We talked about how strange the world was, how sad some parts of this country and others truly are due to their ignorance to all the bounties they truly have.

And he told me I wasn't crazy for having this dream. He told me it would be hard, but I could do it if I fought for it and he knows that I have to. My dad has never had a terrible thing to say about me, but he told me that what I want to do was a noble gesture. And I figure maybe he thinks, much like I do, that I'm a selfish person with no room in my heart to love anyone unless they're benefitting me. But I think we both are slowly learning that maybe selfish is another term for guarded, because he let me ramble on and on about the terrible things I've seen in my travels and how I want nothing more than to help the people of those countries find the same comfort that he and I have.

He told me his point of views on stories of me as a child, back when I played soccer, as I ultimately fell into that strange stage and felt that major disconnect from everyone and gave it up. He reminded me of how much heart I had for the things I loved, and I realize that I still do have that love and passion for the things that feed my soul. He reminded me to hold onto that, because even if I would never be the best, I would always have the best time.

But really, truthfully, honestly. We talked about my brother. We talked about how beautiful of a person he truly is. How much he means to my dad, to our dad. How blood really doesn't define family. How it never has and never will.

I remember when my mom and dad split. Divorced. Pop had an apartment in Chesapeake. Ma had a townhouse in Virginia Beach. Nikki and I were Dad's primary responsibility, my brother had no real legal ties to my dad. And maybe if my parents were bad people, people who didn't want to love and care for their kids fully and deeply, things would have been different, but Billy still saw my dad every weekend that he had with us.

My dad raised my brother. From like nine months forward to his twenty-eight years of life today. They have a bond that people dream of, a closeness that people spend their lives looking for. I've had boyfriends try to say they're the son my father never had - but ******** that, and ******** them. My dad has a son, and he loves him more deeply than anyone in this world. Including my sister and I. And I love that about him.

Anyways, pop was telling me he fears what will come of my brother after he passes away. He worries about his innocence. He worries that the world will take advantage of his kindness, his aloofness, and his hopefulness. Pop doesn't think Ma could ever take care of Billy on her own, and not to say he's a handful, because he is very simple and very easy - but Billy and my dad need each other more than my mom and dad ever have needed one another.

And my dad fears for me and my sister. He fears for our lives as we both volunteer to take on the responsibilities of caring for our brother after he and my mom have left this earth. And I understand that, but I hope he knows that my sister and I could never see my brother as a burden. Ever. We love him too, even if we play with him and sometimes push him over the edge. We would never intentionally hurt him, though.

I never realized how much fear rested inside my dad's mind, and maybe that's again, the selfish part of me that I'm still working through. I often struggle to realize people I know lead very complex, crazy lives. For whatever reason, I seem to picture people sitting in dark rooms when they're not in front of me, talking to me, whatever. Literally, everyone except my brother because I can always hear him bouncing around the house.

I dunno, this is just a big block of bullshit. Basically, I ******** love my dad and I can't believe things have felt so shitty and weird with literally my number one supporter who has constantly begged me to make the choices he knows I know I need to make. I love how much he loves and cares for my siblings and myself.

And literally if anyone still reads this journal, go ******** hug your mom or your dad or whatever parental figure you have in your life. Or just ******** call and say I love you. One night on the porch with my dad really, really taught me just how badly they need to be reminded of that. In the midst of all of their worrying, they often just want to know that your eyes still get glossed over at how amazing they are.