Falling Stars

29 | elements

My argument with my mother reminds me of my father in ways that I cannot explain.

I think of him for the remainder of the afternoon as I mindlessly lay in bed, unable to escape the rabbit hole my thoughts have spiraled into.

My father was my hero as a girl, but the course of his lifetime only solidified this from ideal to fact. He exuberated a kind of strength I had been fortunate to witness, from the beginning of my life to the end of his. Of course, becoming ill changed him–but not in the ways one would think. My father never complained. Ever. Not even on the days his skin appeared gray and he could hardly speak due to pain. Not when he had to live in the hospital full-time with the realization that he was not going to survive the disease spreading through him looming over his head. Everything about his exterior changed except for who he truly was within. His smile and laugh never faded despite circumstance, and this is what made him so strong. I can only imagine how hard it had been for him to keep up such a bright persona when he no doubt had to be drowning in pain and darkness. But he never gave in to the disease he was battling, even in his final moments.

It is a strange thing to live through, watching someone you love slowly die. It is even harder when you are a child watching it happen to your own parent at such a young age. I still do not quite know how to explain how I felt in those moments. How do you put into words something that seems so much bigger than anything the English dictionary can describe? The sadness that felt like drowning in the ocean amidst a hurricane without so much as a life vest. The resentment to the world, questioning repeatedly: Why me? Why is this horrible thing happening to me? The realization that what is happening is much bigger than yourself and that you cannot linger in your own pain, because you have to comfort and lessen the pain of those around you. It is hell on earth, living through that sort of thing.

I remember my final moments with my father, though it is the one memory I typically refuse to go back to. It is too hard, recalling him that final evening. He did not look like my father then. The dark, thick hair of his that I had inherited had already faded completely. His face had sunken in, his limbs had become knobby, features thin and angular. His breathing was labored and his skin devoid of the beautiful color he had passed on to me. Just by looking at him you could see the pain he was in, even if his smile suggested otherwise.

He had let me lay on him one last time, even though we both knew I shouldn't because he was no longer quite strong enough to bear my weight. He had smoothed down my hair like he used to when I would sit with him in his recliner, even though the simple action winded him like he had just run a marathon.

"Do not miss me when I am gone," Dad had whispered. I recall the confusion this statement had instilled within me even now. Of course I was going to miss him–how could I not? Furthermore, it was the first time my father had ever openly admitted that soon he would be gone–at least, it had been the first time he had mentioned the topic with me. We had never blatantly discussed the fact that he was dying before. I don't think either of us needed to verbally clarify as much–it was too hard, too painful to face.

"What do you mean?" I had mumbled, trying not to cry. I hated crying in front of my father because I didn't want him to know that I knew. I wanted to give him the best of me, to make it all easier on him. Whatever my pain was, I knew his was more. It is one thing to watch your father die. I imagine it to be entirely different to be in his position, fading away before your child.

"You do not have to miss me," Dad repeated. His breathing became heavier, and I knew that the action of speaking alone was too much for him. "Because I won't really be gone." He spoke these words with that easy smile of his and strong conviction, as if he knew this much to be fact. It took all of my strength not to question him. I blamed his odd behavior on the amount of medications coursing through his system that were meant to ease his physical pain, though truly only seemed to be taking a toll on his mentality.

"Dad . . ." I had trailed off as I eyed him. Tears were threatening to spill over, and I did not have the heart to tell him that he was not making any sense. So I let the words on the tip of my tongue fade into the back of my mind and instead sat and stared at my father, trying to memorize everything about him before the time would come all too soon where I would no longer have the luxury of seeing him every day.

"I know I won't be here in the way I want to be," Dad had confessed. A coughing fit had attacked him then, and I had rushed to grab him the glass of water sitting on the hospital nightstand, though he had merely shaken his head. In his last few weeks, Dad had gotten into a habit of refusing food or water, which concerned all of us. The doctors pressed him, but this only made him stronger in his refusal. At the time, I did not understand this. I know now it was because my father knew he would soon be gone, and that consuming anything only made him feel more sick. He knew what was coming and he finally quit fighting it, and realizing this only breaks my heart.

"But I won't be gone from this world," Dad had continued once his fit had died down. "I will be in the stars." Dad said this so simply, I remember almost believing him. His expression was dream-like, whether from the drugs or the certainty of his words, I do not know. "This is what we are all made of, mija. Stardust. Within us exists all of the same elements that are found in the universe. And it is where I will return. When you look up at night, you will see me. The brightest, most twinkling star. Know that is me saying hello."

I had cried then, even though I knew better than to display that kind of emotion in front of my father. It had been the kind of crying that racks your body and leaves you gasping for air. Dad had tried to console me, though I knew seeing me upset would only elevate his pain. A nurse had heard my clamor from the hallway and Mom had to usher me out of the room.

Just hours later, Dad passed away.

The stars had been exceptionally bright that night. It was the clearest the sky had been in days, as a storm had passed through and lingered throughout the week. One star in particular had caught my eye, shimmering and twinkling so evidently I had to blink to make sure I was not seeing things.

The memory reminds me of Haven. Her knowledge of space, how much she adores the universe. I think she would have liked my father. I think he would have loved her. In small ways, they remind me of one another. I wish she could have met him; I wish she could have had the chance to know how special he truly was.

It dawns on me that maybe there is a way Haven can get to know him after all. If meeting Haven has taught me anything, it has been that life is too short not to live it. My father may be gone from this world, but he still lives within me, in my memories, in my love for him. He is a part of me, one of the best parts, a part I should not be ashamed of, a part I should not hide.

And I'm tired of hiding from Haven. I've been so scared that if she knew the truth–if she knew how broken losing Dad left me–that she would find me too much to deal with, that I would scare her off. But maybe my fears are lying to me. Maybe Haven is the only person who would understand. Maybe she can be my safe space–just like she has been unknowingly this whole time. I don't think knowing I am broken will send Haven running.

I think she'd love me anyway.

I wipe at my tears as I reach for my phone and dial her number.