“Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do. Make good art.” —Neil Gaiman

A year ago, life was pretty much a dream: I had just bought my dream condo in the city, work was satisfying, and I’d even met a man who spun my world in the best way possible. At my birthday party, brimming with joy and maybe a little too much champagne, I raised a toast and said, “This year has been perfect. I want for nothing. Well, just that no one dies—this is the first year in so long where nothing tragic has happened.” Talk about tempting fate. Just a few days later, my grandpa passed away.

It’s been six months since that gut-wrenching day when I held his hand as he took his last breaths. I poured out my dreams and plans for the future, sang to him, and hugged him tightly. In a way, I was rehearsing for a future where he wouldn’t be there, trying to imprint every bit of his presence into my soul before he slipped away. 

“In his arms, I returned to the joy and safety I felt as a child.” That’s how I describe the feeling of my late grandfather’s hugs. My mother moved to America, dreaming of a better life for us, so my grandparents raised me until she returned. Grandpa was born to be a dad, taking on the role with such ease. To the outside world, he might have seemed stern, even harsh at times, but I melted his heart. I was his baby, and with me, he was all softness and warmth. This role continued to play out into my 30s, except at some point the roles reversed when I became his caretaker. 

My grandma loved to tease us about how inseparable we were, often recounting the time I ended up on the floor because I just couldn’t bear to be apart from my grandpa. I grew up in a little town called Chivay, famous for its stunning canyon and lively annual parties. My grandpa was the life of these parties; as soon as the music started, he’d vanish, and we’d have to track him down in the town plaza. One year, he was especially taken with the musicians, buying them round after round and joining in with each beer. Once he was drunk, he became as stubborn as a mule, impossible to budge—except by me. Even when he was three sheets to the wind, I ruled his world.

That particular evening, I pleaded with him to come home, and he listened. We walked back together. Fresh from a recent surgery, Grandma slept in my bed and I went to the bed my grandparents shared to curl up next to my Grandpa. She suggested maybe I should sleep elsewhere, but I insisted, “No, he’s my dad and I don’t want to leave him.” So, I snuggled into my side of the bed, next to the wall, and he took his side. Minutes later, I felt a shove and then I was slamming into the wall and tumbling to the floor. “I fell!” I hollered. Grandpa, suddenly sobered up, scrambled to find me. “My baby, I’m so sorry this old man hurt you,” he apologized immediately. To this day, we laugh about it because even after crashing to the floor, I still wanted to stay by his side.

Today is my first father’s day without him. It does not feel right and it does not feel real. I picked up the phone to call him and then I remembered he won’t answer his phone anymore. It’s hard and beautiful because now that he isn’t here I have to bring him back by conjuring all the memories I have of him. A quote I often think back to is Neil Gaiman’s words, “life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do. Make good art.” I’m not sure this essay is good art yet, but it’s my art in his memory, I will hopefully get good at it in the years that come as I learn to live with his absence.