It’s been six months since my dad passed away. It’s strange to think of it like that—six whole months. In some ways, it feels like yesterday. In others, it feels like a lifetime ago. Time is strange like that. It moves at its own pace, regardless of what we want or need. And for me, right now, it feels like time has come to a standstill, stuck in that moment when everything changed. That moment when I went from having a dad to having a memory. And in some strange, almost unbearable way, that memory feels more distant and unreachable every day.
The day my dad died was supposed to be just like any other. He was 73. Not exactly young, but not terribly old either. He had lived a full life, and though his health wasn’t perfect, there were no warnings that the end was coming. I thought we had more time. We’d just finished lunch and decided to stop by the store for some garlic bread. It wasn’t anything big—just a quick errand on an ordinary Saturday. We didn’t know that it would be our last errand together. We didn’t know that it would be the last time I would see him alive, the last time I would hear his voice or feel his presence beside me.
We were in the parking lot of the store when it happened. I was in the car, waiting for him to come back with the bread. It was just a few minutes, and it wasn’t unusual for him to take a little longer than expected when he went shopping. I wasn’t worried. But after ten minutes, I began to feel uneasy. My dad wasn’t the type to dilly-dally. He was always quick, always on the move, a man of action. I got out of the car to check on him, thinking maybe he was having trouble with the cart or had gotten distracted by something in the aisles.
I found him in the doorway of the store. He had collapsed, fallen right there. At first, I thought he had tripped, or maybe he had fainted, but when I got closer, I realized he was gone. His body was still, his face pale. I froze. I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. I wanted to scream, to run to him, but my legs wouldn’t move. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. My dad couldn’t be gone. He was always there. He was always the strong one, the protector.
I called 911, and the paramedics arrived quickly, but by the time they reached him, it was already too late. My dad had suffered a massive heart attack. It had come without warning. There was no way to prepare, no signs that it was coming. I was left standing there, in the parking lot, holding onto the fragments of my shattered world. The man who had been my anchor, my hero, my father—he was gone.
The first few days after his death felt like a blur. I was in shock, unable to comprehend what had happened. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t. The reality of the situation seemed so impossible, so foreign, that it felt like I was living in someone else’s nightmare. I kept waiting for him to walk through the door, to pick up the phone and call me like he always did, to tell me everything would be okay. But that never happened. Every time I thought about him, every time I remembered something we did together, my heart would break all over again. I couldn’t escape the pain.
I kept asking myself why. Why him? Why now? I wasn’t ready. I had so many things left to say to him. So many moments I had taken for granted, assuming I would have time to say goodbye. I thought I had more time to tell him how much he meant to me, how much I loved him. But now it was too late.
One of the hardest things to accept was that he wouldn’t be there for the big moments in my life. He wouldn’t be there to walk me down the aisle when I got married. He wouldn’t be there to hold my hand and tell me everything was going to be okay when I had my first child. He wouldn’t be there to give me advice, to share a laugh, or to call me “pumpkin” like he always did. Those little moments—those seemingly insignificant moments—were the ones I cherished the most. They were the threads that held the fabric of our relationship together. And now, they were gone.
I couldn’t stop crying. I would wake up in the middle of the night, tears streaming down my face, my heart aching for him. The grief was so deep, so all-encompassing, that it felt like I was drowning in it. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t breathe without feeling it. It was like a weight, pressing down on me from every direction, suffocating me, stealing away all the joy I had once known.
The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, but nothing changed. The pain never went away. It didn’t get any easier. It’s been six months, but it still feels fresh. I still feel the sharp sting of his absence. I still hear his voice in my mind, calling me “pumpkin” or making some off-hand joke that made me laugh. I still see his smile in my memory, his strong, reassuring presence. But it’s all just a memory now. And sometimes, even those memories feel like they’re fading, slipping further and further away.
I want to remember everything about him. I want to hold onto every detail, every moment. But it’s so hard. Time has a way of erasing things, even the things we want to hold on to the most. I find myself trying to remember what his laugh sounded like or what his hugs felt like, but it’s like trying to hold onto sand. It slips through my fingers, and I can’t make it stay.
I keep thinking about the things I never told him. I never told him enough how much I loved him. I never said it enough. I never let him know just how much he meant to me. I always thought there would be more time, more opportunities to tell him. But there wasn’t. And now I’m left with this ache in my chest, this hole in my heart where he used to be.
I regret the little things too. The times when I was too busy to call him, when I took him for granted, when I was wrapped up in my own life and didn’t take the time to appreciate him as much as I should have. I regret not spending more time with him, not asking him more about his life, his memories, his stories. I wish I had known the things he never told me, the parts of himself that he kept hidden away. But now it’s too late for that.
There’s a part of me that feels angry too. I’m angry that he was taken from me so suddenly, so unexpectedly. I’m angry that I didn’t get to say goodbye, that I didn’t get to hold his hand and tell him one last time how much I loved him. I’m angry that he’s never going to see me graduate, never going to be there for my milestones. He’s never going to meet his grandchildren, never going to hold them in his arms and spoil them like he spoiled me.
But most of all, I’m sad. I’m so unbearably sad. I’m sad that my dad is gone, that I’ll never get to talk to him again, never get to share a meal with him, never get to hear his advice or feel the comfort of his presence. He was my dad, and now he’s gone. And no matter how much time passes, no matter how much I try to move on with my life, I will never be the same without him.
Six months have passed, but I still feel the weight of his absence every single day. I still feel lost without him. I still look for him in the crowd, still expect him to call me, still imagine him walking through the door and telling me everything will be okay. But he won’t. He’s gone, and nothing will ever be the same again.
But even in the midst of all this pain, I know one thing for sure: My dad loved me. He loved me more than anything in the world. And I know that, no matter what, he will always love me. I carry his love with me, even though he’s gone. I carry his lessons, his wisdom, his laughter, and his heart. And I will keep carrying it for the rest of my life.
Dad, if you can hear me, I want you to know that I will love you forever. I will carry your love with me in everything I do, and I will honor your memory every single day. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you enough how much I loved you. But I hope you knew. I hope you always knew.
And even though you’re not here, I will always be your pumpkin. Always.
