the good cry

Teary eyes come up easily out of memories, remembrance, reverence or uncontrolled laughter. Tears for a good cry hardly do.

Until Dad passed.

My beloved father died on Christmas Eve 2024, seven months ago to this day, in his ancestral Galicia, Spain.

Mom, my sister and me were fortunate to be by his hospital bedside during his final hours.

His eyes closed, his pulse calmed, his coughing silenced, his aura angelic, his life in mine.

This was the day I met the good cry.

I am not writing about the literal definition of the term – the release of pent-up emotions leading to a sense of relief and improved mood.

This is about the loss of an extraordinary father.

Shy in stream, graceful in flow, rich in gratitude, dense in memories, these are the tears I write about.

As they welled up, my rational voice told me what I knew –   There’s nothing I could have done to have avoided his suffering and his departure from our life, or that I will never be able to hug him again.

My memory reminded that he will always live in me.

And as such, Christmas 2024 was my life changer.  It baptized me with a sacred rain of tears honoring my father, the ultimate family man.

Procreating children makes a man a biological father. Having the standards to be there for your spouse and children and protect them for a lifetime does.

His manual for family would be titled Legacy.  I am lucky to treasure it.

Far from perfect as no human is, my father was the epitome of vision and determination in post-war Spain. He was the immigrant without a father figure who faced the high seas of poverty with the dignity of self-worth and determination.

He was also a good writer, and as such, a man of his word.  Add an exemplary provider, a hardworking man, a generous spirit, a gifted communicator, a financially responsible mentor, an anchor of support. All of it with the innate intellect, curiosity, wit, elegance, and savoir-faire money can’t buy.

At his deathbed feeling how devastated he would had been to say goodbye to his family, I whispered that he would always live in us, particularly at the Caribbean, our Shangri-La. My tears helped me describe we will always swim together through the waves he loved, rising and breaking into the sunshine he adored.

My voice projects all the way  to the woman who inspired him to be the very best version of himself.

Mom, at 91,  has survived this traumatic loss of spouse with the dignity of spirit reserved for those who lead by example.

She doesn’t tell my sister or me how much she cries when we call her in Spain every morning, but suffice to say we know.

My definition of my tears are my answer when she mentions she cries only a little, as to avoid my suffering.

Knowing how much she misses him is always validated with the acceptance we share – He no longer suffers and instead has joined the everlasting loving consciousness we know so little about.

I also remind her of the phrase Dad always told me – “Make sure you can recognize yourself in the mirror every morning.” And then, adamantly, I reassure her that every effort she is doing to keep herself together in this new phase of life honors the love they had for each other.

She smiles and I can feel dad teary eyed, like yours truly.

He would be proud of my sentiment – My tears are life’s megaphone for my father’s love for me.

It’s so genuine it humbles you. Just like every Christmas used to.

Last Christmas humbled my family  indescribably differently.

On a sacred and symbolic night that marks the evening before Christmas Day, our present was invaluable.

We were given the privilege of honoring my Dad’s departure as his family, together by his side. His departure became testimony of togetherness.

Undoubtedly, this would have been his choice as he embraced the creator who blessed our lives with his.