1.21.15

Two years ago today, dad passed away. I remember getting ready for school in the morning but before I walked out the door, I said goodbye to him and told him that I loved him. He was asleep on the study couch because during the night, it became hard for him to breathe so he went downstairs to sleep so as to not bother mom. I never thought this would be the last time I would ever see him alive, or be the last thing I would say to him. I am glad that I was able to tell him that I loved him, though. I just regret not giving him another hug.

I was in my French class when I received a note from the front office. It just said that I was being checked out. A chill rushed over me looking at the note. I thought: “I don’t have any doctor’s appointments…I didn’t forget anything important….” Once I got to the front office, I saw my older sister solemnly standing there. My heart began to pound and my hands became all clammy. I asked her what was wrong. She shed a tear while looking at the ground. We walked out of the office and away from the other students in the hall and then she told me: “Hannah, dad has died. He passed away this morning.” I can’t describe the shock I was in. All I remember was curling in on myself like a dead bug and slipping into a storm of tears. I didn’t want to hear those words for at least another 50 years. How could dad be gone? Why did he have to die? Everyone was praying for him to get better. We all had faith he could beat the cancer…I had faith he could beat the cancer….

When we arrived home, I slowly stepped into the study and there it was: a body. This was the body that housed my dad’s spirit for his mortal journey––but he wasn’t there. I hesitated to touch the cold, blue hands. The large-jointed, hairy, artistic hands I always held as a child. I peered around the room, looking at my family shedding the most soulful tears they have ever shed. All I could think was: “Is this real?”