We are all broken, left reeling from the sudden news that still feels like a thunderclap from out of the blue, leaving a cloud of disbelief in its wake. When I first heard about your condition, all I could think of was being there with you and the family at the hospital. The days that followed were a blur of waiting and brief reports of a glimmer of hope, only to be shattered by the devastating news that you were gone.
I found myself watching a video from a few years ago, taken on your birthday, where you’re holding a lighted cake and your cousins are singing “happy birthday” to you. The magical gleam in your eyes and your beautiful, innocent smile are forever etched in my memory. I tried to capture that essence in a screenshot, but it was elusive, a fleeting moment that I couldn’t quite grasp.
Your passing was too soon, too sudden, and it’s hard to accept that you’re really gone. Looking back at family photos, I’m reminded of the memories we shared, and it hurts to think that those moments are all I have left. I’m left wondering if I’ll ever come to terms with your departure, or if the pain of losing you will always linger.
I remember before you left for the US, we had planned a farewell meal, but it never happened. I’m left with the regret of not being able to hug you and bid you a proper farewell. Perhaps it’s time for me to let go of the disbelief and accept that you’re really gone.
In my dreams, I saw you and your papa walking together on a white sand beach, and I knew that’s where you are now. I once wrote about our house in Bajada, referring to it as a “house of spirit” where our loved ones gather on weekends. I wrote that those who have passed on don’t just disappear into nothingness, but instead move into a special space in our memories, dwelling in a place where there is no sadness.
As I look back, I’m comforted by the thought that you’re now in that special place, waiting to welcome us when it’s our time to go. Welcome home, our beloved Kootch. Go with God.
