Silence

A phone number I hadn't dialed in years popped up on my phone two weeks ago, flooding my mind with memories and questions.

Why was I going to call?

I can’t remember.

Looking for a friend’s number, my father’s number popped up on the screen.

The white numbers glowed on my phone: the contact name, Papá.

I have no idea how that happened. I hadn’t blindly scrolled through my contacts or punched a letter or number. I stared at the glass rectangle for five minutes. The last time I called him was on November 12, the day before he died. The day before his phone number went silent for good.

My phone became a door to the past—moments from six, seven, eight, and many years ago. I walked in with a heart still broken, still very much attached to who he was and what he still means to me.

I remember that day before my mother’s funeral Mass.

“I’m not going to remain alone,” he said.

The once-quiet phone calls became public. He didn’t have to hide them anymore or give them an obscure contact name.

“I’m free, I’m free,” he would say with relief and a giddy smile, his eyes lost in thoughts of a future without my mother or us.

Those words cut deep. Gone was the father I had known all my life—the man who honored his parents, especially his mother—the man who, with my mother, had built a home for us.

Home.

He had always been caring and loving but mainly spoke through his actions. He’d never hang out with friends or hit a bar after work. He was always doing chores around the house, fixing a window, doing some minor plumbing, or caring for the yard. He was always home. He was a man for his wife and children.

My great-uncle said as much, “Your father is a good man. He’s all about you guys, not like I was.”

I remember.

One summer, when he worked the evening shift, we spent the entire season with him, doing chores and being children otherwise. My mother worked during the day. We had never spent so much time with him, just him. It was a blessing. We would shop and work around the yard and garage. We would even cook, but we would also disappear to the park, go to the pool, and then return home before he left for work. The magical summer felt like it would never end.

It was just the day after Labor Day, the first day of school, so we got up early and had breakfast with him. We dressed and headed to the school early, so seeing the empty building wasn’t surprising.

A woman came out of the office and said, “Hi, you’re early, a day early in fact. School doesn’t start until tomorrow. You get an extra day of summer.”

We savored it. When we got home, and he saw us, he smiled a smile so big that all it could communicate was, “I missed you. I’m so glad you’re home. I love you.” We changed back into our shorts and T-shirts, and for lunch, we went out for hamburgers to celebrate!

I remembered his last summer.

I took him out to our favorite diner, and we ordered the usual: coffee—eggs, ham, or bacon, with a side of hash browns and toast or pancakes. They didn’t, and still don’t have good hot sauce, but the food is always tasty. We didn’t have much to do that morning, so we ate slowly, until finally worked up the courage to tell him what I had been holding, wanting to tell him for years, had hoped to tell him someday, many years in the future, sitting at his side holding his hand during the moment he was passing away.

“Papi,” I said. “Te quiero and I want you to know that all the good I’ve done and have tried to do in my life, I’ve done it thinking of you. College, all my study and all my work, the writing and teaching, I’ve done it thinking about you and Mom. I wanted to honor both of you with my life.”

He listened, nodded, and finished his coffee.

I asked for the bill, paid, and we left. I don’t know what he thought of my life. Maybe it didn’t meet his expectations.

That summer ended, and he returned to México.

My brother called me on November 13 and asked if I was sitting down. I snapped, “Just tell me!” He did. I didn’t need to sit. My father was still alive. Instead, I called my sister and boss and texted friends and family. He might pull through after emergency surgery. He had been knocked back by a pickup truck, hitting his head against a stone. There was no external bleeding, not a scratch, so there was some hope he’d be OK, but he died on the operating table that night.

Three days later, I gazed through the glass rectangle covering his face in the casket. We removed it before they placed his body in the furnace. My sister, my brother, and I said goodbye one last time.

And then there was silence for good.