"BUT I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT I'D SEE YOU AGAIN." -JAMES TAYLOR

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve...

We were sitting in a booth at Denny's eating breakfast when I was about 10. Steve was always doing anything and everything he could to embarrass me. Said it was his duty. He had this plastic eyeball he carried around. Just to annoying me, I'm sure of it. So, he takes it and puts it up to one of his eyes and starts making all these funny noises while moving the fake eye around. Then, out of nowhere, white liquid was squirting everywhere as he threw the fake eye in the air and pretended like it was his real eye popping out of socket. He had used one of the creamers for his coffee to make the mess. He could always make me laugh. Even when he was embarrassing the crap out of me. 

I was eight when my mom brought Steve home. He had long hair and acted about my age. I loved him. He wasn't always perfect, as my mother often likes to remind me. But, Steve loved me and to me, he could do no wrong. He quickly became the only man that I considered a father and to this day, the only man who has ever unconditionally loved me. 

I grew up with no father. My mom was 17 when she had me and he was gone before I was ever born. It never bothered me that I didn't have a dad. It was all I knew. It wasn't as if he left me in the middle of the night while I was screaming on the staircase for him to not leave when I was five. He was just never in my life. My mom didn't ever talk about him or anything. I just didn't have a dad. It was my norm.

Steve worked for his parents. They owned their own company and he traveled around the world. I swore he had a friend in every country. He spoke Spanish and any other language that he could learn. He was intelligent and wise and always, always laughing and making others laugh. He worked as a comedian on the weekends at an improvisational comedy club in Dallas called Ad-Libs. I grew up in that club. I remember being 8 years old, sitting in the back, laughing at raunchy jokes that I didn't get, eating quesadillas and ice cream. 

Steve would let me drive. He taught me how to ride a bike. He would take me to movies and came to all my ball games. Steve was a dad to me, through and through. And loving a man the way I loved him, was new to me. While I could never bring myself to actually call him "dad," he called me his daughter all the time. Most people didn't even know my name, he would just introduce me as "this is my daughter." 

My mom and Steve were together for about seven years before they officially broke up. My mom was no angel, but Steve loved her like I had never seen a man love a woman. Not long after, or so it felt, Steve was gone from everyone's life but mine. I wouldn't see him, but he would call me often. He would talk to me about his hopes and dreams and apologize for things he didn't need to apologize for. He would listen to me go on and on about all my big plans. He never told me they weren't possible. He would just listen and laugh and tell me that I should do anything and everything I want to do, no matter how unrealistic my dreams were.

I grew up in a very uptight household. Nothing was funny. Everything was offensive. No one had a sense of humor. I remember I got my grandmother a stupid birthday card one time that said, "I hope you like this card, someone in the card aisle farted, so I just grabbed the first one I could find." Everyone was so offended and told me it wasn't an appropriate card.

I have always felt different from my family and everyone around me. I have never, ever felt understood by them. It's hard feeling like such a loner. It's hard enough being that way at school or around your friends but to feel that way around your family. The people who are suppose to love you no matter what. Who are supposed to support you and cheer for you and help you. To feel so unheard is a really lonely feeling.

Steve got me. He understood me better than anyone. He saw that I was different and embraced it. He knew that I was listening to everything, that I was dying to learn anything and everything that I could, and that I just wanted to be heard. So, he listened. He listened to me play the clarinet and sing. He would listen to me complain about my friends and family. And he would say some of the most brilliant things sometimes that I still think about to this day.

One day we were in his car with the windows down. Probably because his car didn't have air conditioning. He didn't care. We were listening and singing to some song on the radio at a stop light when he turned the sound all the way down. The car next to us was speaking another language. He said, "Do you hear that? Listen." "What?!," I said. "Hear to them talking? Next to us." As I sat there listening, I laughed and said, "Yeah, but I don't know what they are saying..." "It doesn't matter, just listen." Then the light turned green. He kept the radio down and said to me, "You gotta keep your head up, PJ. You gotta always look around at the world around you, PJ."

In the short time that he spent in my life, he changed me, unquestionably. He didn't care what kind of car he drove, what kind of furniture was in his living room, what his clothes looked like. He wore the most ridiculous shirts. He didn't care what people thought of him. He was the kind of soul that everyone wishes they were, but no one has the guts to be. I am so lucky to have known him and even luckier that parts of who he was lives inside of me.

This has been the loneliest year of my life. I miss Steve all the time. For obvious reasons, but also because I know that he would understand. He would embrace the changes that I've made to my life and he would tell me it was the right thing to do. And while most people are sitting back and judging me, he would tell me to not care what they think and then he would ask me if I was happy because my happiness is what actually matters. And then he would tell me he was proud of me.

I wish I could tell him about all my plans. He would love them. He would encourage me to see and do everything my heart desires. He would tell me to not be afraid and if I was afraid, to do it anyway. He would laugh and tell me that hiking the PCT sounds like a great idea. No endeavor was ever too crazy. The crazier the better. And if he was still here, I would want him to know that I live my life as he taught me. And that I will never stop thinking of him while I do them.

Steve died at the age of 49, five years ago this month. He lives now only in my memory and in the moon tattoo on my left shoulder. In pictures, the words spoken of him and the stories told. I know that Steve touched more lives than just mine. That was obvious by the wall to wall packed chapel at his funeral. By the way people laughed more than they cried. How they spoke of him. I know he will be remembered until everyone who knew him dies. And until that day, I will never stop mentioning your name.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve...

"I heard you die twice. Once when they bury you in the grave and the second time is the last time somebody mentions your name." -Macklemore