Aaron stood to say goodbye before his mission, With your father sitting there, And told the world about your mother, All she'd taught you, all she'd shared. Every virtue, every memory, Every lesson you could see— And I watched the man who raised you Disappear from your history. I noticed. And so did he. Verse 2 Then he came back home from serving, And the stories came again— Of the mother you still carried, Of the things you'd learned from her then. While the father who had worked and sacrificed, To make it possible for you to serve, Sat quietly among the faces. I noticed. And so did he. You can love the one who left you. You can keep her memory bright. You can speak her name with tenderness And miss her every night. There was room enough for both of them; It never had to be One remembered, one forgotten. I noticed. And so did he. Birthday posts and Mother's Days, And days with no occasion too— Beautiful words about your mother, And everything she meant to you. And there was nothing wrong with saying it; She deserved those memories. But your living father deserved them too. I noticed. And so did he. Then it reached another generation, Stories handed down with love. Grandma Debbie became someone They were taught to dream about. And a grandson left to serve the Lord, Writing what she'd taught him faithfully— Though he'd been a baby when she left this world. I noticed. And so did he. Because Grandpa was the one he knew, The one who watched that boy become a man, Took him to the shop and taught him how to work, Put the tools into his hands. Drove the miles to watch the milestones, Missouri, Oklahoma—wherever he might be. Funny how that boy grew up to love The very things Grandpa loved to do. And still— Not a word. I noticed. And so did he. You can love the one who left you. You can keep her memory bright. You can speak her name with tenderness And miss her every night. But you can miss the one who wasn't there Without forgetting the one who was. There was room enough for both of them. There always, always was. And every time there wasn't— I noticed. And so did he. Maybe that's what people never understood: Silence leaves a message too. The names we never say out loud, The gratitude we never choose. You don't have to tell somebody That they matter less to you. Sometimes you just keep praising everyone Except the one who's in the room. And he'll know. He knew. And I knew too. And then one day the words were spoken, Maybe clearer than you heard: "I love you both, but I will always Be there for my family" And I wondered where that left your father, Who had always called you family— When the word that should have held him too Somehow meant everybody else but he. You may not have meant to say it. But those are the exact word that you said. I noticed. And so did he. Maybe that's why when it ended, There was less left holding him. Not because he didn't love you— Not because the years meant nothing then. But maybe hearts can only stand so long Invisible among their family. Maybe walking wasn't sudden. Maybe he'd been losing you In inches For years before you left. And I noticed. So did he. Keep loving her. Keep saying her name. Tell her stories faithfully. She was your mother. She deserves Her place within your history. But there was another parent Who kept showing up For everything you'd need. A living father. Right there. Waiting to be seen. I noticed. And so did he. There was always room To love them both. There was always room To remember her And honor him. I never needed you To choose between them. I only wish You'd noticed him too.
