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Forgive me for waxing poetic, friends. This isn't so much of a rant, as much as... I just have something I need to get off my chest.

I was nineteen years old when my father passed away from Leukemia. I was twenty-two before I forgave him for a lot of things in my life. It was only in the past 48 hours that I am really starting to understand a lot of the things he said to me.

My father was a full believer in quiet lessons, and things that come to realization at a later date. "Children don't listen, it's useless to impart wisdom to someone who doesn't listen." Instead he opted for quiet lessons, and perfected the craft of it as well. A comment here and there that sticks with you, that comes into realization later in life.

When I was in high school, I went to him with some child-like drama. My friend said this behind my back and so-and-so won't talk to me! (End of the world, right?) Point blank he said: "I can't solve your problems." That sucks, right?? To a teenager I was stunned and hurt that he would dismiss my desperate problem like that.

I came into some problems in the past few days that have swept me off my feet. But I stood up, dusted myself off and preceeded to deal with my own situation, like a fully developed adult. I thought back to that day he told me that he couldn't solve my problems and I couldn't help but shake my head and chuckle. He was right. And as an adult I come to find more and more that quite often my parents were indeed right about (almost) everything.

I learned as a teenager to take responsibility for my own actions and problems, to solve them in a mature and realistic way that has become second nature to me. Now, I'm not saying here that asking for help is wrong. But I firmly believe that one must take responsiblity for their own problems first and foremost, before humbly asking for help, rather than expecting someone else to fix your problems.

When he was diagnosed with Leukemia in 2003, my world was racked. This was a man that I held quite a bit of anger towards throughout my devlopmental stages in life, but he was my father, and losing a parent is disabling at best.

I moved to California to be close to him and help him be comfortable during his last few months, and even then he was still imparting his quiet lessons.

It was a particularly bad day, nothing was going right for me, you know the day I'm talking about... every single little task is unsurmountable, and frustrating beyond belief. And then the tiniest pinprick happens, and sets you into meltdown.

My pinprick was a broken plate. While washing dishes, I dropped a plate and it shattered on the tile floor. That was it, I was done, I burst into tears, angry at myself for being unable to do such a mundane task like loading the dishwasher, and I cleaned up the ceramic with tears pouring down my face.

My father appeared in the doorway, alarmed from the crash, and he saw me horribly upset over this broken plate, and he started to laugh. I was furious, it was not funny in the slightest! I got angry with him and snapped at him, told him that it wasn't funny, that I had broken the "!#@$*-ing plate". Once more he looked at me point blank and shook his head with a smile. "I don't need plates. I'm dying."

I was beyond angry at that. How dare he make light of his cancer like that? Didn't he understand how badly it hurt to hear that? How could he say it just like that, and with a smile no less!

But here I am four years later thinking back to the time I spent with him in California, and beyond anything else, I remember every moment about that instance and seeing how even four years after he passed away, he is still imparting these quiet lessons to me and my brother.

It's your typical "don't cry over spilled milk" lesson. With two words: "I'm dying." he managed an entire unheard speech that I can only imagine him titling "Shut up and deal with it, there are bigger problems than your own."

There have been many quiet lesson revelations over the years. When I got upset at him for smoking even after diagnosis, he would say "I don't have to worry about it, I already have cancer!" I mean, truly infuriating things for the daughter of a dying man to hear. And yet as I look back on it, I shake my head and smile, remembering his carefree attitude in his last months.

I don't have any lessons for you, readers. I don't have my father's knack for quiet lessons, and at twenty-three years old, I certaintly don't have the wisdom to pass along. In actuality, there really isn't a point to all of this, except that perhaps your parents, or someone you care about has imparted some form of quiet lesson to you over your years. You never know until it hits you.

Thanks for letting me air it out, friends. As my Father's favourite quote points out: "I have a prayer to pray, that's really all this was."