To everyone who is too afraid to ask,

     The only things you can hear are low murmurs and muffled sobs. The tent is set up underneath a giant pine tree, its thick, wide branches offering us better protection than the tent could ever hope to. Both the tent and the tree perch on a section of grass on the corner between two crossroads in the cemetery. The day was overcast and depressing, just like my mood. I was young then, just a little kindergarten girl who needed her daddy. I cling to my nana, my ever-constant tears staining her shirt, making her shoulder a dark plum color, rather than the lilac hue of the rest of her shawl. She carries me, and we’re swallowed by the sea of faces that I don’t recognize. Since I am small, peoples backs are the only thing that I can see. Although, every so often, I catch a glimpse of that brown, polished casket, and then I see him. I stare. I can’t help myself, I want to see him. I need to see him. I felt like I needed to have some physical connection, whether it was by sight or by touch, with him. I knew that as soon as his casket was lowered into the ground, I would never physically see him again, not in this lifetime. I know that it was silly to think that way because he was actually already gone, on to the next life, and he was watching me, watching him, but I couldn’t help myself. So I gaze until another black-clothed back moves in the way of my line of vision.

     The oil was wet, and was slowly warming up in between my little fingers. I knew the reason I did this was because daddy was sick. I didn’t completely understand why it was necessary, but I didn’t care. I was having fun rubbing the funny oil on daddy’s tummy. We looked like a division sign, sitting on my parents bed; my mom and I sitting on our knees on either side of my dad, who was laying flat on his back down the middle of the bed. First I would make a flower on my daddy’s stomach out of the oil, then I would create a puppy, then a heart, and I would slowly trace every single thing that a kindergartener knew how to draw. When I was finished, daddy would thank me, and I would thank him. I loved spending time with him, no matter what we were doing together.

     “Daddys an angel now.” Those four little words rocked my world. Not the kind of “rock your world” that people usually enjoy or get excited about. I’m talking the kind of “rock your world” that turns your life upside down and sends it spinning in 10,000 different directions at once. The kind that makes you sick to your stomach, and makes you want to cry, scream, and hit something, all at once. But you don’t do any of that. You just sit there, like stone, gripping the armrests of the dark green chair, while you feel the pain of the cold, sharp buttons digging into your palms like Californians during the Gold Rush. You don’t move a muscle until your grandmother takes you in her arms, and then you finally let yourself begin to cry.

     He was the kind of guy that would make you feel like the most important person in the world when you were talking to him. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be loving. He was handsome, too, with his Lebanese- olive skin, dark hair, and those brown eyes that were so easy to get lost in, as I so often did. He was 6’2, with a big, strong build- including the infamous Marciniak thighs. (Which yes, he did pass on to me.) He was my biggest hero, and still is. He was also a big ol’ teddy bear, the most terrifying tickle monster you’ve ever seen, and when he wrapped me up in his arms, he was my security blanket. He wasn’t just great at being a dad, he did some other pretty cool stuff while he was on this earth. Like when he did a backflip off of a cliff while visiting the Virgin Islands, or when he won a state championship with his high school football team. He was an athlete for sure, he played football and hockey in high school, and was a pretty kick-butt squash player for the rest of his life, we even have the trophy bowl to prove it.

Yes, I love him. Yes, I miss him. No, I’m not afraid to talk about him, so please, don’t be afraid to ask.