There are only two times in my life I’ve seen my father cry. First time I was 5 or 6 years of age. Naive, not a care or worry in my little mind. He was in the bathroom, his hands set in front of him while he lean on the counter. He had his head down soft tears I remember, roared rapidly. I didn’t, at the time understand the reasoning or density of what he was going through. But now I know because I’m about his age as an adult, the same age he was when I saw him cry. And I understand that life isn’t always fair and you will hurt and struggle, you will feel completely alone and confused. Yet, you will remember that this too will pass and there will be brighter days. So you lift your head up and face the bathroom mirror, stare your kind and honest heart in the eyes and not give up. Because you do it, for your children.
The last time I saw my father cry, I stood beside him. This time, I understood pain, loss, the betrayal of existence which is also the only certainty of life; death. I was in my early 20s then. It may have been one of the hardest moments of his life, a time where I felt helpless. As if I could do nothing to take the heaviness he felt in his heart, away. The day his best friend, his now- childhood memory, his favorite person in the world passed away, his uncle. I could feel his pain through the deep shaken breaths he would take, trying to not show all of us, the hurt of loneliness he felt at that very moment. It filled his soul and that moment with the definition of loss. All I could do was place my hand on his shoulder and bring him in for a soft hug. But not I, not his mother, no one could ever replace that type of love.
By: Leah Jurado
Age 33
Los Angeles, CA
Verdugo Rd. Apt 2
3/7/19
