in the stillness of my memories,
i see your eyes fixed on me, my pigtails twirling
your fingers tracing the creases of my dimples,
oh, my sweet girl, you'd whisper
my heart whispered back, my papi
then you were no more
gazing through tear-stained windows,
please come home, my sole wish,
a desperate cry that goes unheard
felt deeply within my soul
then you were no more
gasping for breath, you slipped away,
your ashes scattered at sea
carrying the burden of past sorrows
your truths adrift, forever lost
left alone again, with my tears
clutching the fragments of a broken heart
left to reconcile the daddy I never had
and a love that never arrived
the one who left long ago
you were no more-Mic
Happy Birthday, Papi!
So much of your life remains a mystery. With your last breath, you took your reasons with you, leaving me with more questions. But I also know –no one bore a greater burden for the outcome of your choices than you.
While my heart always longed for more; my yesterdays I do not regret.
So until we meet again, Papi, te amo mucho, even for the person you were no more.
I enter the studio and scan the room; the makers (artists) are hunched over, meticulously working with metal and scraps. I am greeted with warms smiles yet feel a considerable energy shift in the space. There is an undeniable intimacy to the studio; I have interrupted their flow as a stranger. No doubt, the instant I step away, the makers will revert to a place of laughing, sharing, and co-creating.
We all gather in the waiting family area, preparing for the somber walk to the chapel. There’s an air of formality and politeness that feels stifling. The pastor says something that sets me on edge. I want to lash out, ‘who the fuck are you? You didn’t even know him,’ I don’t; instead, I bite my tongue and give him a look that hopefully conveys my inner thoughts. Walking away, I shake my head and think, did I try to pick a fight with a man of God? Jesus Christ almighty, get your shit together, Mic.
Loving and living fully guarantee profound loss and pain. This is the price —the admission fee for a meaningful life.
I had a hunch and shared it with my siblings, ‘he has the eyes of death; it won’t be long.’ Two weeks later, I am en route to Honduras to face his demise. My words haunt me.
The Other Side
Losing a loved one opens gates of emotions and exposes reservoirs of regret and pain. Healing comes through the sadness that washes ashore; what remains is a gift.
A self-correcting lens that adjusts my inner compass and erases pettiness —freeing me to focus on what matters most. This is the gift, the other side of death; I show up for myself and my people differently, with meaning and appreciation.
The Covid Delay
A cruel waiting game ensued, crippled by slow, painful hours that turned into days– purgatory for his inevitable fate. Still, I prayed for a miracle.
The delay was not to punish rather purposeful. To reflect and reconcile what was and what is. Surrendering, he is the one we got.
Love Language
He was a perfectly imperfect human who lived shackled by past sins. The heaviness of his reality drowned most. Yet, he survived by stripping all emotion, selecting to be a party of one, and cutting the ties that bind.
Yes, this left us fatherless, but it also gave us life. He didn’t want his children to simply survive; he wanted us to thrive. So, he packed his burdens —resentment, disappointments—limitations —and walked away, choosing to release us from his anchor. This was his love language.
To Forgive
Forgiveness and acceptance are not the same, yet bear edges that blur; just like scars, they don’t vanish, but healing is possible.
Anger
It’s difficult to be angry and hate someone taking their last breath. The ugliness of truths dissipates, and flickers of light remain.
Pushing aside what he wasn’t and honoring who he is—the sparkles that remain—his quirks, personality, and physical traits live in each of us, accepting that some ties that bind can never be broken.
In the End
My cousins share stories from the last years, and laughter breaks out; I feel a ping of jealousy—they got moments we never did—and then gratitude. In the end, no longer chained to the past.
Final Words
‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me’
‘I once was lost but now am found
Was blind, but now I see’
His lungs could not sustain uttering his final words, los quiero. At last, I see too, lo quiero tambien.
Dedicated to my tell it like it is mother n’ law, Nina, who showed me what it is to be a ‘boy mom.’
These are snippets from my journals. Alzheimer’s is cruel and ugly. Nina was fierce and brave. I miss her.
Candace Lynn McCarthy (January 20, 1947- May 28, 2021)
May 24, 2021, The Call
‘I got the call,’ he tells me, and I know exactly what the words mean. We look out the window, and a rainbow lights up the sky, ‘she’s ready,’ he says.
The dream pops into my head. I turn to Kelly, ‘crazy, I just had that dream where,’ he finishes, ‘where she shows up at our door, unexpectedly, grinning and twirling her hair,” Yes! Nina is okay; she’s happy, babe.
The doorbell rings, and my attempts to reach the front door ahead of our black lab, Bruno fails. Settle down, boy; it’s not for you. My words do not do the trick; Bruno is going nuts with excitement. I crack the door open Jack backs up; Bruno is intimidating.
Jack
Jack is a twenty-something dude with one of those hipster beards, a trend I don’t quite get (how do you care for it? Do you need a special shampoo? What about food? Does it itch? Why?) …so many questions. Nonetheless, Jack happens to wear the beard freakishly well; it suits him.
Adolescence, a confusing period when themes of self-worth and belonging are consuming. No doubt, navigating through the awkward phase can be messy. Imagine having to grow up under the lens of social media where all things are magnified; yeah, no thanks. I had a hard enough time on my own; I can’t imagine having social media as a guide to highlight all the areas I fell short.
The day I learn his name—details of the fatal accident trickle in. A third-year Michigan State University student, Dominic Duhn, was killed in a hit and run while riding his skateboard with friends. Dominic was twenty years old. Survived by his parents, Drew, Gabriella, and younger brother, Enzo. My heart sinks for Gabriella, I do not pretend to know her pain, to bury a child, no, I do not know, but I do know what it is to love a son. A silent prayer, God give her strength is all I can whisper. The accident occurred less than a mile from my home; this could have been one of my boys.
I am a gypsy, moving to unfamiliar places every few years. For some, this might be daunting, but to me, it is exhilarating as I welcome and thrive in the unknown. It helps that the universe always steers and places me in the path of the most incredible women. What starts as a casual hello often evolves into a ‘lifer’ friendship, sharing in all the delicious messiness of life. I love my chosen family and feel a deep obligation to nurture and protect my peeps.
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man in the moon
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when"
But we'll get together then
You know we'll have a good time then
-Harry Chapin
It occurred to me that I have been lying. It was not my intention, nonetheless a falsehood. Contrary to what I have been saying my whole life, which is that I am one of six kids, the truth is that I am one of seven. My dad has a son from a previous relationship. My brother was not a secret in our family; he came to visit on two occasions. I have not seen him in over thirty-five years; however, recently, we have started to communicate.
