08/13/2025
In movies, after something shattering happens, there’s that sound. A sharp, steady ringing that swallows everything else.
That’s what it felt like, standing in the street, phone to my ear, learning my dad was gone. The life sucked out of me. The ground, unsteady. Every certainty was gone.
Seven years later, the ringing hasn’t disappeared. It’s softer now — less of a scream, more of a hum. Some days it’s background noise. Some days, it feels like I’m living inside that ringing. Muted, off-balance—like the world has been playing at half-volume for the past seven years.
And here’s the part I can’t shake: The thought that me staying small, staying sad — shrinking into that hum — would devastate him.
My Dad wasn’t a quiet man. He slurped his pasta. Spilled on his shirts. Laughed loud and took up space. The idea that I’m wasting time he doesn’t get anymore? That guts me.
It’s hard, though — to balance grief and presence. To enjoy life without someone who made it so enjoyable.
But I try. To notice the light in my kitchen at 6pm. To say yes to the invite. To make something good for dinner even when I feel hollow. To laugh without guilt. To believe joy can be a tribute, not a betrayal.
Tonight, that meant spicy lobster rigatoni. Tomatoes I grew myself — small, stubborn things that made me proud. Tomato paste, lots of garlic, red pepper flakes, sweet fresh lobster folded in at the end, and butter melting into everything like it belonged.
My dad would’ve eaten it straight from the pot, bread in hand—though he would prefer it less spicy.
I don’t want August 13 to only mark the accident. I want it to remind me to eat the good things. To grow something worth tasting. To quiet the noise, ease the haunting, and hold on to him for all the good he was, instead of holding on to the pain.
