There are silences that heal... and there are silences that haunt.

For me, the one that lingers is tied to my ex-wife’s father. A man I respected more than most. Our relationship was ending, the house already full of cracks, and I never got the chance to sit across from him and explain. Not to defend myself, not to make excuses... just to say it was unfortunate, and that I still carried respect for him.

But life doesn’t always grant you that audience. He passed away during our separation. No final conversation, no moment of closure. Just silence.

And that silence... it swallows you differently. Not like guilt, because I knew he respected me too. It’s the ache of not having looked eye to eye, of leaving words unspoken that might have lightened the weight in both our chests.

Years later, in Japan, his daughter took me to his burial site. I stood there quietly, placed my respect where it belonged, and let her witness it. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all that was left.

The truth is, paying respect to the dead is rarely about them. They’ve moved on, to a different plane, free of our unfinished sentences. These rituals are for us... the ones still carrying the ledger of what we did and what we left undone. Checks and balances for the soul. Proof that we are still who we say we are.

And maybe that’s the quiet reminder buried inside all of this. To speak when you can. To leave less unsaid with those who matter, while the door is still open. Because silence will always arrive... sometimes chosen, sometimes forced. But when it’s forced, you learn it was never really silence at all... it was a question left unanswered.