A few years ago, a magazine article inspired me. It stated that fathers cherish letters from their children, especially missives brimming with specific thanks and praise.

My husband tested the concept first, delivering a heartfelt composition to his dad. My father-in-law was so touched that he enthused he would treasure it forever.

Encouraged, I created a similar piece for my father. No response for weeks.

Finally, curiosity compelled me to query, "Dad, did you receive my card?"

"Card?" he puzzled, then turned to my mom, "Did I get a card?"

A pause while my mom admonishingly nudged his memory.

"Oh, yeah, thanks," he acknowledged. And that was all.

Perhaps male engineers of the Silent Generation have a different language of love than female, Gen-X writers.

Yet in his own way, Dad has unquestionably demonstrated devotion and care over the years.

Having a father trained in construction engineering did have its advantages when I was young. If I needed something repaired, my mom would instruct me to leave it for Dad. Sure enough, the object would return, miraculously fixed. My dependence on Dad's handyman skills may well explain my current dearth of do-it-yourself aptitude.

During my freshman year in college, my father casually stated that he would be stopping by to visit on his way back from a business trip. The last time I checked, New York was definitely not en route from Florida to California, yet Dad was willing to detour 1,000 miles solely to see me.

When I was a teenager, Dad also braved the duty of preparing me for my driver's license. Around and around the empty parking lot we circled until I gained confidence. Then he stepped out, letting me drive by myself.

As my father stood alone in the lot watching me maneuver, was he thinking how swiftly his little girl had grown up; whether time had sprouted wings? Obtaining a driver's license was one step closer to other milestones, one step farther from home. All too close loomed graduations, distant moves, new jobs and marriage. Yet at that moment, Dad cheered me on with his buoyant grin and encouraging words. Years later, he embodied much this same spirit during my wedding.

Oft-recited stories and well-worn photos are the only ways I can reconstruct the earliest years spent with my father. Yet seeing him interact with my baby daughter now is telling. Dad hangs on to her every babble, and can never hear enough about her latest antics. When she was 6 weeks old, I watched my father hold her for hours, and wondered if this was what he was like with my brother and me.

"Never seen my son so happy," penned my 93-year-old grandma after his stay.

Having grown up in a more traditional society, my parents find it nigh impossible to eke out the words, "I love you." However, my dad has adopted a collective saying: "We still love you."

Perhaps this is what 'ohana encompasses: That despite the many differences, miles and years between us, we still forgive and love each other unconditionally, for we also have been blessed with overflowing joy, grace and togetherness.

Dad, we still love you, too.

Monica Quock Chan is a freelance writer who lives in Honolulu with her husband and daughter.

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