The man I always wanted to catch up to.

Dad walked fast.

He didn't just hurry—he moved forward.

With such naturalness that as a child I thought every father walked like that:

big, determined steps, as if every minute mattered.

And maybe it really did matter to him.

There was something about him that I didn't understand then:

an inner rhythm that wasn't dictated by the world, but that he created for himself.

When I walked beside him, I often hurried, but he never looked back to urge or scold.

He simply trusted that I would catch up, because those who love don't have to hold hands and pull each other—they just have to go forward.

All his objects at home were in order.

Not in a military way, not in a cramped manner,

but as someone who understands the world: that everything has its place.

Parallel and perpendicular—the way he arranged it, there was peace.

That was his language.

Not long sentences.

Not big stories.

But order.

Simplicity.

Precision.

The fact that he did what he started.

He finished what he undertook.

He loved those he loved in silence.

Dad didn't tell me when he was proud.

He didn't brag.

He didn't explain who he was and why he was the way he was.

He didn't tell me what he thought, what he was afraid of, what hurt him.

Instead, he did something else:

He was there.

His presence was the speech.

His punctual arrival was the love.

His silence was the embrace.

His big steps were the teachings.

And I tried to understand this wordless language,

which I only realized later that every man begins to form a sound from the silence of his own father.

As I grew older, I saw more and more why he was in such a hurry:

he wasn't running away from anything, but was going towards something.

He always had a purpose.

He always had something to do.

He always had an inner drive,

like someone who knew that life is grateful when our movements don't fall apart, but come together.

And now, when he's no longer beside me on the sidewalk, I can't hear his footsteps,

I can't see his fast rhythm—now I truly understand what kind of person he was.

A spark in the dark.

Not a big light, not a firestorm—

but the kind of small, sure light that you can always find your way back to.

Dad didn't do big things.

He did small things with precision.

And that made everything around him okay, even when the world was about to fall apart.

Today I know:

It's not whether I ever caught up with him.

It's that I was given a direction worth going in.

And when I tie my tie in the morning, when I arrange the objects on my desk, when I walk faster than I should — I feel him there.

Not behind me.

Not in front of me.

But inside me.

His silence became my voice.

His order became my rhythm.

His steps became my path.

And now I understand:

a father never disappears.

He just steps over to the side of silence, from where he continues to shine — just like a spark in the dark.