Dad passed away on December 30.
I walked into the house and climbed the stairs. Mom was in the bathroom, and I let her know I was there. Then I stepped into the bedroom. Dad lay there, peacefully asleep—but something about his stillness felt off. I walked around the bed and sat down beside him. His skin looked too gray, his face too motionless. I reached out, touching his cheek. It felt cold beneath my fingers.
Gently, I lifted the edge of the blanket. His hands rested on his chest, folded neatly. The tips of his fingers had a purplish hue. I pulled the blanket back up just as Mom walked into the room.
“He’s passed,” I said softly.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief. “His head felt so cold last night… I made sure the blanket was up around his neck to keep him warm.”
I leaned closer, listening for breath, searching for any sign of life. Faint, bubbling sounds came from deep inside his lungs.
“No, Mom,” I whispered. “He’s gone.”
We sat together in silence, trying to absorb the weight of the moment. Mom’s eyes glistened with tears as she processed the loss. Then I texted Chelle, “I’m here. He’s passed.” It was 9:21 a.m. She was walking up the driveway and, within moments, stood beside us. Together, we talked about Dad’s final days, sharing memories and wondering aloud, “What do we do now?”
The answer came naturally—we started calling our people: ‘Chelle’s kids, my husband, Judy, and my kids.
I called Luka and told him not to come. “It’s okay,” I assured him. “I know you need to work.” Ten minutes later, I called him back. “You need to be here,” I said, my voice breaking.
“I know, Mom,” he replied. “I was going to take an Uber home, but Dad’s already on his way to pick me up.”
Within the hour, all six grandkids, Chelle, Judy, Craig, and the rest of the family had gathered. We stood together, sharing stories and comforting one another, the love and strength of family holding us up as we faced the reality of Dad’s passing.
In that room filled with quiet grief and tender memories, we honored him—the man who had given us so much.
The hospice nurse arrived, asked Mom questions…and left.
The funeral home director followed.
The four “boys” lifted Dad onto a soft, flexible stretcher and gently carried him down the stairs and out to the waiting vehicle.
With Dad gone, we gathered in the living room. I brought chairs in from the dining room and the kitchen. We sat for hours laughing, talking, and listening deeply to one another’s stories. At one point, we retrieved a bottle from downstairs that I had gifted Dad after my trip to Barcelona. A single shot seemed appropriate to honor the day and the man.
The flavor was heavy with anise and left a lasting aftertaste of Vick’s VapoRub. I think Dad would have appreciated the sentiment—maybe even enjoyed the flavor.
As the day faded, I marveled at how love had filled the spaces where grief had tried to take hold. We remembered Dad not just in sadness but in joy, gratitude, and connection. And in that, his memory will live on.
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