You know the day will eventually happen, but you still naively wish they’ll live forever. Two weeks ago, my dad unexpectedly passed away. For those who knew him, he was the most pragmatic yet witty and sarcastic man you would have ever met. Some may have thought him to be antisocial, but he simply kept his circle small and close knit. If you were ever on the receiving end of his teasing antics, you were on his short list of people he adored (my mom got the brunt of it). He was never one to raise his voice and rarely ever said “no,” at least not to me. He always spoiled me, but made me work hard. He was the only one who was allowed to call me “Chubarino” or “Chub,” a loving moniker I earned as a very chubby baby that lived on into my adulthood.
The past couple of weeks have been the most surreal weeks of my life. There are days where I still find myself in utter disbelief. Forming the words, "my dad is gone." Having to continuously say "thank you" to everyone’s (very sweet) condolences. Feeling helpless as I held my mom outside the hospital as she weeped into my shoulder that morning.
The worst part was having to explain to my six year old son that his beloved grandpa had died. My son is the most magical human; upon hearing the news, he asked if I could help him take a shower to "wash the sad away." Each night at bedtime, he sleeps on his grandpa’s pillow.
I picked up my dad’s ashes the other day. All I can say, seventy one is too early to go.