Every day on the way home from school, I would pray he wouldn’t be seated at the head of the table. I would pray he would be asleep or out working in the yard, but he never was. After sitting in class for six hours, I always hoped he wouldn’t ask me questions, yet he always would. It always started with the cliché of “How was your day,” and it would end with talk about the future, even though I was only ten years old.

The routine remained the same, until I was in the seventh grade. That was the year he was diagnosed with hepatic cancer; the year my world came crashing down. Despite going to school, I would spend my time at the hospital. Even though he was always asleep or on heavy medication, I knew he felt me beside him. We were told it was fatal from the start, but I wouldn’t let myself believe the doctors. It was during the nights at the hospital that I became infuriated with myself for never wanting to talk to him as a child. It was in these moments that I would spill my heart out to Yiya, as he laid there with his eyes closed and his heavy chest moving up and down in such a peaceful rhythm.

Weeks carried on, but it seemed like he was going to get better. He became responsive to the tests, began making sounds and moving his fingers. It seemed surreal, as if we were waking up from some terrible nightmare. New medication and a breathing machine gave him the opportunity to go home, at last. Every day on the way home from school, I would pray he would be sitting in his seat, ready with questions. Instead, he took to sleeping on the couch for the majority of his day, and was never completely conscious when he was awake. Nonetheless, I would go into the living room to sit with him, bringing him water and soup the second his eyes opened. I would ramble on about my day, seeing a response in his eyes. I was almost happy, but it was short-lived, for he was brought back to the hospital a week later. The day I opened the door to an empty house, I knew I would find everybody at the hospital. Going there with my cousin, we both prayed it was routine testing.

We arrived to see my family circled in the hallway outside the room. Their eyes blood-shot red, water marks on their cheeks, their bodies shaking. Without hesitation, I ran into the room. He was barely awake when he said, “How is my softball girl?” Those were the last words I heard, as I was taken from the room. I understood. My Yiya wasn’t going to get better. He was cursed with this disease and it was going to take him from me, forever. For the next two days, we stayed outside the room until visiting hours ended. By the third day, I was too late. Yiya was gone, taken, and all anybody could offer me was an apology. I was sorry too. I was sorry I didn’t show how much I loved him, while he always made it clear to me. I was sorry I took our conversations for granted, while he always looked at them as the greatest part of his day. I was sorry I wasn’t there in his final breath. So now, all I can do is thank my Yiya for the lessons he has taught me. Through him, I learned to never take anyone, or anything, for granted and to live everyday to its fullest. I learned to always put my best foot forward, and to be strong because time heals everything. His life and death has impacted me in ways I never thought imaginable, for now I make the best of every day.