Two Beers for You, Dad

Two years ago today, my dad left this world — but not my heart. I still hear his voice: his dry humor, his quiet wisdom, his no-nonsense way of cutting through life’s noise with one raised brow and a beer count philosophy — simple math for a complicated world. He always had a thing or two to say about how messy life can get, and in my flurry of worry, he would heave a sigh and tell me to quit borrowing trouble. More than anything, I just want to honor him — his strength, his steadiness, and his love. This poem is for him.

I’m sitting at my desk, surrounded by crumpled pages,

the kind you used to tease me about.

“Still writing about broomsticks and boy trouble?”

And I would grin, working long hours that blurred into early mornings,

because even you — the realist —

knew there was magic in the making.

You didn’t laugh often,

but when you did,

you would throw your head back and laugh from your gut —

that teasing, musical laugh that drove me crazy

and somehow made everything lighter.

You measured life in beer —

never mystical, never flowery,

but somehow always sacred.

Dad, I wish you could see this book,

the one I’ve been rewriting since you passed —

because that’s what you taught me —

to do it right, even when it’s hard.

You would raise your beer, I would raise my glass,

and we would toast to impossible things:

a world that still needs heroes,

and a daughter still learning to build them.

It’s been two years,

light years in beer time,

and I still hear your voice in my head —

your dry humor, your sage advice,

your quiet sigh that said more than words ever could.

And I can hear you now,

trying to shutter my worries as our country descends into chaos,

shaking your head,

muttering, “Well, shit.”

You’ve long departed this world,

but the air still hums with your humor,

your quiet brand of strength,

your beer philosophy that somehow

anchors all my imagined worlds.

So here’s to you, Dad —

to the steady hands that once built greatness,

to the heart that may have failed but never quit loving,

long after you took your last breath,

to the way you used to look at me over your glasses,

saying more than words ever could.

And somewhere between ink and afterlife,

I know you’re watching over me as I write, saying,

“Nice work.

Now quit worrying and keep going.”

© 2025 Lowvee Cole. All rights reserved.

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