Two years after one of the foundational male figures in my life passed, another one did. Not related by blood, but himself the foundation of my belief that family is bond, not blood. He was a paragon in the community, the kind of man who had his own seat with a plaque at his favorite local eatery. From my earliest years, he treated me well, like his own nephew. I know it helped take a lot of stress away from my mother, who otherwise shouldered the burden of raising me largely by herself. He’d measure my height on a filing cabinet in his office, until I got too tall to keep it up. The marks were still there though, even when he wasn’t able to work in his office anymore.

He was a lawyer, working as a public defender for the lion’s share of his professional life. He never put on airs, or acted like his was a noble choice: he was always focused on making sure his clients had the best representation he could give them. He took the role of public defender seriously, and I’m sure in some way that devotion to public service of a sort rubbed off on me.

He passed away from heart failure, if I remember correctly. He knew it was probably what would get him in the end; heart surgery wasn’t unfamiliar to him. I remember when my mother told me that he didn’t seem like he had long. I cried, and then I thought about all the times we had spoken. All the memories, all the bonds forged. He always called me his client, and made a fun show of advocating for better ‘compensation’ from my mother. It became our joke, carried on in different ways even when I became an adult. We even shared the same name, so he was always Mr., and I was ‘Little.’

Because of COVID, we couldn’t risk people who weren’t already around him coming close, vaccine or no. I had so much I wanted to tell him, things I didn’t get to tell either of my grandfathers before they passed. So, I wrote. My mother gave him the letter the day after I wrote it; she told me he cried as he read it. I did too.

The funeral was, of course, fantastic. Heartwarming, sad but far from mournful as befitted a man who was full of life, so much so it spilled out into the community. We even had a celebration that he had prepared with his own money, a night of drinking, singing, and enjoying the memories of life rather than the pain of loss. It’s probably one of the best memories I have. Below is what I wrote to him, since I figure if I’ve already bared my soul this much about the man, I might as well throw a little formality into the mix.

Dear Mr. ___,

I apologize in advance if this feels weirdly formal; finals for me this semester are nothing but essays and it’s got me dreaming in MLA citations.

From as far back as I can remember you were a part of my life; things like the filing cabinet you had to measure my height, and the story my mom likes to share of the time when you and I had fallen asleep in the back of a car against each other are still fresh in my mind. They’re good memories for me, and I’m glad I have them with me.

Growing up, my dad wasn’t around much; it’s still something he and I are working on, building up our relationship to where it should be by now. I never really felt like I didn’t have a father figure around though, and I’ve realized that I’ve been very lucky in that regard. I’ve been lucky enough to have people like you in my life who had no reason to even give me the time of day, and yet still treated me just like family. It’s that warm openness you’ve shown me throughout my life that I want to carry forward. If I ever have kids or become an uncle or something like that, I hope I can be as good to them as you’ve been to me.

I’m sorry if this comes off as too corny, but from the bottom of my heart, thank you.