The Man Who Walked Without Applause

The Man Who Walked Without Applause

He didn’t speak in fancy prose,

Nor wore his feelings like fresh clothes.

His love was quiet, hard to see—

A sturdy branch on the family tree.

While mom was sun and warm embrace,

He was the roof—the solid base.

A man of tools, of thoughts unshared,

Who showed he loved you ‘cause he cared.

He fixed the bulb before it burst,

Ate last at dinner, fed you first.

His hugs were rare, but oh so real,

Like armor built from tempered steel.

He didn’t cry at school awards,

But smiled inside—his silent chords.

A gruff “Well done,” a nod, a grin,

But behind the scenes, he cheered within.

He taught you how to ride and fall,

To drive, to earn, to stand up tall.

He wasn’t loud, but left his mark,

Like constellations in the dark.

His wallet knew your every dream,

Yet he wore shoes with threadbare seam.

He gave you wings, then watched you fly,

And never once asked why or cry.

He was the voice in tough decisions,

The realist among your visions.

Yet when you failed, he didn’t shout—

He stood behind you, full of doubt.

Not in you—but in his way

Of loving more than he could say.

He never asked for much applause,

Just did his part—without a pause.

And now, with age, I understand,

That heroes don’t wear capes or stand.

They walk to work, with aching knees,

Still cracking jokes through life’s debris.

So here’s to dads, both near and far,

The steady light, our northern star.

The quiet love we may not see—

But oh, it shapes who we will be.