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And Today If You Ask Me About Him And today, if you ask me what is so special about him, I’ll probably smile a little and say, “Nothing.” Nothing the world would stop for. Nothing history would remember. Nothing poets have not already tried to understand about men. He is only a man. And perhaps there is an entire lifetime hidden inside those four words. He wakes up some mornings already tired, not because he did not sleep, but because some thoughts continue working even after the body has gone quiet. Still, he gets up. Not because he always feels strong. Sometimes simply because there are people depending on him, and he has spent so many years being the person who says, “Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” that he has forgotten how to tell someone, “I don’t know if I can manage today.” He was once a boy too. A boy who cried when his knees were scraped. A boy who ran toward home when the world frightened him. A boy who believed his father knew everything, his mother could fix everything, and somehow, someone older would always know what came next. Then life happened quietly. Nobody announced the exact day the boy became the man. There was no ceremony. No warning. One day he simply realized people were no longer asking him, “Are you scared?” They were asking, “What are you going to do?” So he learned. He learned to turn fear into plans. Pain into silence. Confusion into decisions. Heartbreak into jokes. Loneliness into long drives. And questions he could not answer into nights spent staring at the ceiling. He became very good at saying, “I’m fine.” Good enough that eventually people believed him. Sometimes even he did. And maybe that is one of the loneliest things about becoming a man: one day, the person everyone expects to know what happens next is you. Even when somewhere inside you there is still a boy looking around the room, hoping somebody else has the answer. He worries about money more than he admits. Because at some point money stopped being numbers in an account. It became protection. His parents’ medicines. A roof that cannot be taken away. A hospital bill he wants to be able to pay without hesitation. A future. A child’s education. A woman he loves never having to wonder whether tomorrow will be safe. It became the ability to look at the people who trust him and say, “I’ve got it.” Perhaps that is why failure frightens him the way it does. When he imagines falling, he rarely sees only himself. He sees everyone standing behind him. And that weight can make even a strong man afraid. But he probably will not say that. He will say, “I just have a lot going on.” As though an entire life could fit inside six ordinary words. He dreams too. More than people think. Not always of luxury. Not always of becoming the richest man in the room. Sometimes his dream is embarrassingly simple. His parents getting older without becoming afraid of getting older. His mother never hesitating before buying something for herself. His father finally resting without calculating expenses. The woman he loves sleeping peacefully beside him. Children laughing somewhere inside a home that feels permanent. Bills paid. Food on the table. No emergency waiting behind the next phone call. And perhaps, one quiet evening where nobody needs him to solve anything. Just one evening where he can sit down, look around, and know, everyone is okay. Then maybe, for a little while, he can be okay too. He loves differently. Sometimes badly. Sometimes beautifully. Often without knowing how to name what he feels. His love may not always arrive in poems. Sometimes it sounds like, “Call me when you reach.” “Have you eaten?” “Take my jacket.” “Send me your location.” “Don’t go alone.” Sometimes love is him walking on the side of the road closer to traffic. Sometimes it is his hand appearing behind your head when the car brakes suddenly. Sometimes it is remembering something you mentioned months ago and pretending he bought it casually. Sometimes it is fixing something in your house that you had already learned to live without. Sometimes it is waiting awake until your message says, “Reached.” Then putting the phone down as though his entire body had been waiting for those seven letters. He does not always say, “I love you.” Sometimes he says, “Drive carefully.” And means exactly that. He notices things too. Perhaps not always the things you expect. He may not immediately notice your earrings. But he notices when your voice sounds different. When you have eaten less. When you become quieter than usual. When your “I’m okay” sounds exactly like his own. And because he knows how much can hide inside those words, sometimes he stays nearby without forcing you to explain. He wants to be appreciated too. Much more than he will ever admit comfortably. Tell him, “I’m proud of you,” and he may laugh. Shake his head. Ask, “For what?” B...