tap the fireflies, fill the jar
You filled the jar.
When you were tiny, you used to chase fireflies in the yard at dusk. You'd cup your hands around them so gently — like you understood, even then, that light is something you hold, not something you grab.
You sang Sunflower from your car seat before you could read the words. 6:14 AM. Saturday. Full volume. I wasn't awake. I am now. Forever.
You are the loudest, brightest, most extraordinary human being I have ever known. You light up every room you walk into. Not because you try to. Because you can't help it. It's who you are.
I built this whole garden for you, monkeymonk. Every firefly is a moment I remember. Every glow is something you taught me without knowing it. The jar isn't the important part. You are. You were always the light — not the jar.
Every single thing I build — every wall, every page, every late night, every line of code — I build so that one day you'll see it and know: your dad tried. He really, really tried. And he did it all because his little light needed a world worth living in.
I love you more than all the stars, all the fireflies, and all the Sunflowers in the universe.