I didn’t know that the last time I would see my father alive would be at an airport drop-off. I had taken my parents to the airport in Curaçao, saying goodbye as they left for the Netherlands. A few weeks later, I left for the Netherlands myself—on the very same day they were leaving.
We thought we might see each other at Schiphol, even just for a moment in the hallway. But by the time I made it out, they were already in line to board. That was it. I had no idea that would be the last time we shared the same space, breathing the same air.
Terminal Schiphol Amsterdam Netherlands via Pigprox for Getty Images Signature
While visiting my friend Marwa in Dubai, my mother’s birthday came around. Since WhatsApp calls aren’t available in the UAE, I sent her a message, as I always do. Marwa offered to call, but I shrugged it off. “My parents are probably out celebrating.” Later, I reconsidered. “Actually, I’m going to ask her.” Marwa simply said, “I already offered—just call.” So I did. My parents were getting ready to head out when my mom picked up. We talked briefly before she passed the phone to my dad. I told him about Dubai’s airport, the mall, and our plans for the next few days. They were about to leave, so we ended with our usual “Love you.” To which he, as always, replied, “Love.” That was our last conversation.
That night, as I lay in bed, I saw a message from my sister-in-law Lori on Instagram: “Get in touch with your brother.” I assumed it was about traffic tickets I had probably racked up while driving.
When I called him back, he asked if someone was with me. “Well, Marwa is sleeping, but she’s here.” Then came the words: “I don’t have great news for you.” I braced myself. “Okay, who?”
“Dad.” I thought, We’ve been through this before. We’ll get through it again. My mind was already preparing for what needed to be done. Then he said, “He unfortunately passed away.”
I remember feeling numb, like the words couldn’t quite reach me.
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Grief should’ve been immediate, but instead, it felt distant—muted by the foreignness of my surroundings. What did feel familiar was Marwa, the sister-friend who made sure that if I did fall, it would be onto perfectly fluffed pillows. I have to credit her for creating a sense of safety, handling things for me when I couldn’t.
Suspended in a space of void, I suddenly thought about how I don’t typically go to funerals. The thought of seeing my father in that state terrified me. It was a grief too heavy to confront, so I didn’t.
Instead, I split myself in two—the person in mind and the person in body. One part of me was just functioning amongst the living, while the other was shutting everything out. Just like the infinite calls that came through that day but never truly reached me.
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On the flight back to Europe, my mind was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I didn’t want to talk to my mom. I didn’t want to communicate with anyone. I just wanted silence.
When the plane landed in Schiphol, my phone reconnected to Dutch territory, and the flood of condolence messages came through. I saw them, I knew they were meant for me—but I didn’t want to take them in. I didn’t respond to any.
Not because I didn’t appreciate them, but because accepting condolences meant accepting reality.
I took the train, then the bus, to my destination—still numb, absorbing everything but the people. The grass, the cows, the chilly air—I noticed it all, yet nothing truly registered.
When I arrived, I exchanged a few words with my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. They were visibly sad, but I still hadn’t unpacked the weight of it.
It wasn’t until I stepped into the shower that everything settled. The water poured over me, and suddenly, so did the grief. My tears fell in sync with the showerhead, and even after the water stopped, they didn’t.
You mean my dad is gone? As in… forever? No, but you mean my dad? Nah, his aura is too strong for that. His presence is too grand—this can’t be true.
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Returning to the island and arriving home, I masked my grief, holding myself together for my mother. We didn’t really lock eyes—maybe because we both knew that if we did, the weight of it all would come crashing in. Instead, I submerged myself in my parents’ world, where each night, people gathered at our home to pay their respects until the night before the funeral.
The funeral was a beautiful homegoing for my dad. Surrounded by family and friends, it felt more like a gathering to celebrate his life than a farewell. Yet, the sadness remained. The moment the casket was about to be closed pierced through me, a pain unlike any other.
After the customary washing of hands and the gathering at home, people gradually began to leave. And as the house grew quieter, my individual grief found its own path—one that led me to the ocean.
I spent long moments in silence, attuned to the waves, synchronizing with their rhythm. There, I envisioned my father sailing away. Having endless fun in Vegas.
My dad was an exceptionally loyal worker, a total foodie who loved recreational gambling, a seeker of experiences, and an explorer of different cultures. He had friends from every corner of the globe, but his greatest role was being my mom’s forever boyfriend—and fittingly, his last day was spent taking her out for her birthday.
I am deeply grateful for the profound force my father was in my life. He carried an undeniable presence—one that commanded both respect and warmth. The very essence of his being is where I get my warrior spirit—joyful yet unwavering in strength.
I will always cherish how, in his own time, he softened—transforming into a gentler, even more playful version of himself.
His journey was extraordinary, and the way he overcame challenges while endlessly providing for his family, offering a helping hand to friends and acquaintances, is nothing short of remarkable.
He came and lived fully. Now, half a year into his transition to the other side, I find myself missing him more, yet growing stronger with each passing day.
Danki, Tata. You came, you saw, and you conquered—sailing away royally, as only a captain would.
