There was nothing particularly special about Mike’s. My dad frequented this local diner, named Mike’s, ever since I was a child, and as I grew older, we continued our tradition of visiting together—an opportunity for some quality time. It was a quaint diner and kind of janky, not in a distasteful way, but rather reminiscent of an 80s aesthetic, untouched by contemporary renovations. The owner, presumably named "Mike," was familiar with my dad. He always ordered what I now recognize as milk with coffee, sweetened with three spoonfuls of sugar—an indulgence I failed to appreciate at the time. His coffee cravings were more a matter of habit than necessity. Sitting across from him, we'd engage in discussions about recent events in our lives. He'd inquire about my school, sports, and interests—nothing was off-limits. We'd tackle crossword puzzles together; he had an extensive vocabulary yet would seek my assistance, even though he didn’t need it. I'd enjoy my waffle, cooked lightly, much like his preference. It became one of my cherished memories of spending time with him during my formative years.

A week before his passing, my mom, best friend, and I joined him at Mike’s, unaware that it would be our final visit to the diner. I ordered my waffle cooked lightly, he got his customary milk-infused coffee, and we conversed about various topics, just as we always did. Despite his weakened state, he exuded a sense of resilience, and I never once anticipated that the end was near, let alone so close. A week later, I found myself at Brooklyn Hospital. While I had experienced the loss of loved ones before, this time felt different. I can still vividly recall every detail of that fateful day, from its onset to its conclusion. The day following his passing, I experienced a sense of detachment, a floating sensation. I felt numb, unable to process my thoughts, overwhelmed by a profound sense of emptiness. I now understand what it means to feel truly empty, as if nothing were real and all my aspirations with dad were useless. 

Death is a peculiar phenomenon, both unsettling and inevitable. In my 32 years of life, I continue to grapple with its implications while cultivating a unique yet healthy relationship with it. Death is not a mere abstract concept; it is an undeniable reality—we are mortal beings, and our physical forms eventually cease to exist. However, I find solace in my faith, which assures me that the soul endures beyond the confines of mortal existence. I have sought ways to articulate these sentiments, whether through experiences of déjà vu, moments of reminiscence, or stories shared by my mother that I had not previously heard. Anything that keeps his memory alive serves as a source of comfort, however fleeting, ensuring that he is never forgotten.

For a long time, I feared forgetting—not forgetting him, but forgetting the essence of who he was: his voice, his scent, his genuine laughter, unmistakable in its authenticity. Death, I have come to realize, is simultaneously abnormal and ordinary—a universal experience that transcends cultural, societal, and individual boundaries.

In the aftermath of his passing, I resumed my daily routine, attending work and navigating life's challenges. I even would go to Mike’s from time to time. While I may have been in a state of shock, my primary concern was the absence of his presence at home. Sleep eluded me in the days following his passing, evolving into weeks of insomnia and eventually resulting in a three-year struggle with sleep paralysis. The night he transitioned, I dreamt of him, his form fading into the ether, reaching out to me as if pulled by an invisible force. I met his gaze, urging him to let go, and awoke beside my mother, tears streaming down my face. Subsequent dreams proved unsettling; his figure often distorted or maimed, a stark departure from the vibrant spirit I had known. I found myself fixating on photographs, regretting my failure to capture enough memories with him, and punishing myself by revisiting past mistakes. I recalled never taking my dad out to a fancy dinner, I didn’t make that mac and cheese he asked for two weeks prior to his last days, and even the childish dishonesty to avoid consequences for my careless actions as a disobedient teen—the list grew longer each day. Nightmares frequented my restless nights, until eventually, my mind retreated into a state of numbness, devoid of the once-vibrant imagination that had been my sanctuary: an oasis of vivid dreams that fueled my creativity. The early stages of grief were quite unsettling and difficult and for years I was unable to write, pick up a book, and draw. I threw myself into intense physical activities that felt brainless at the time, like exercise and running in an effort to suppress the aching blame that sat with me of all the things I hadn’t done yet or didn’t do right. 

Three years later, a dream offered respite—a visitation, perhaps, blending memory with an unfulfilled promise—perhaps a realistic iteration of a day we’d potentially have. Though brief, the encounter was vivid, his smile felt reassuring, it was the first time I’d seen him happy in my dreams. It marked the beginning of my healing journey, a journey filled with uncertainty yet propelled by the need to confront the reality of loss. The process of grieving, I have come to understand, is perpetual, its contours ever-shifting, its depths unfathomable.

A decade has passed since my father's departure, yet the grief persists. I have questioned whether grief ever truly subsides. In my experience, the loss of a soul deeply intertwined with one's own defies resolution. Amidst the confusion and sorrow, there lies a profound appreciation for the depth of human connection. The pain, though relentless, serves as a testament to the significance of our bond. While the sadness may never fully dissipate, I have made peace with its presence.

To those grappling with loss, I want to offer this advice: be gentle with yourselves. Grief manifests differently for each individual, often beginning with feelings of guilt—the sense that one could have done more, been more present. Yet, time is fleeting, and there are never enough moments to fully capture a lifetime of memories. Take every opportunity to document your shared experiences, preserving them for younger generations. Engage in conversations, both past and present, allowing your loved one's voice to resonate within you. Life, though momentary, finds meaning in the connections we forge and the memories we cherish. Embrace love in all its forms, for it is the essence of our humanity—the one certainty amidst life's uncertainties. Through my father's legacy, I have discovered the transformative power of love, a force that transcends time and space, guiding me on a journey of healing and self-discovery. I hope you too find solace in the enduring bonds of love and can hold onto memories that continue to tell stories of your family legacy. Some days have been hard since his transition, but sometimes my mom will look at me and say, “you remind me of dad,” a comforting reminder that his presence within me is unwavering. 

This story was written to Yebba’s 2021 release — Dawn