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“Billie, don’t close me off. Please let me be here for you,” Sean said to me as I left the house.

His eyes looked broken, but his voice was gentle, knowing I was in a place of hurting.

“I just need to do this by myself. I need time to process this…on my own,” I told him, trying to make it clear I needed time.

My first death experience was a neighbor I had growing up who died of cancer. She bought me my first skateboard when I was six, just out of the kindness in her heart. Her husband was a pilot and was building a small plane in his garage. I’d glide on my board, and he’d tell me fun stories from his commercial flying days. They were the kindest people. Lola was her name. She’d take all the neighborhood girls to her garden and we’d go paddle boarding with her too.

That was my first funeral or celebration of life, as they called it. I still have a lipgloss she gifted me on my birthday. I never use it, but I always wanted to have it as a remembrance of her. The first genuine person I came across in my life outside of my family.

If I can hold on to something as simple as that lip gloss from my neighbor, I can’t imagine how I’m going to get through this.

He’s my dad.

I pull my notebook out of my purse.

A eulogy. I know as his daughter I need to give one. To whoever might show up to his funeral. His parents are gone, no siblings. I’m the only one that’s close to him.

How can I sum up my father’s life? We had more downs than ups. For some reason, the only thing that is coming to my mind is the fact that he always loved Cadbury Creme Eggs and how he’d stash them in different places. And never the little ones, always the large.

Without overthinking it, I glide my pen across the paper.

My dad was a special person.

I’m sure anyone would say that about their dad, but in my case it’s the truth. He was funny. Handsome. Charming.

Nothing happened in the way I wanted. I’m sure he’d say the same thing if you could ask him. I just got him back after losing him for so long. It’s as if someone put my heart back together, only to fully rip it out of my chest.

I remember when I was really little, maybe five, I got the flu. I was so sick. I felt horrible. We sat on the couch with some kid tv show on and he held me all day long. At one point, I couldn’t control it and I threw up all over him. Projectile vomit, all down his OSU sweatshirt.

He didn’t get mad. He didn't yell. He just sat with me as I let it all out, comforting me. That’s the kind of person he was. He’d let you puke all over him, just so you were comfortable.

Letting go of him, it feels like I’m letting go of myself. I don’t know how I’m supposed to move on.

I’m afraid after enough time I won’t be able to remember his voice.

We were supposed to have more time.

I pause, my hand shaking.

I can’t continue writing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.

◆◆◆

When I step out the door, it’s sprinkling outside. Not ideal weather for an outdoor service.

I can barely see Sean through the windshield. He’s been waiting in my driveway for at least ten minutes. He texted that he was here, but I wasn’t ready to leave. Once we’re there—it’ll be real.

I race to the truck, jumping inside and trying not to get my dress too wet. It’s pointless; I’ll get wet there anyway.

We are silent the whole drive to the cemetery. It’s just ten minutes outside of town.

I posted on Facebook what time his memorial service was, but when I see a large crowd of people, I realize we must be in the wrong spot.

“I don’t think this is the right area,” I tell Sean, checking my phone map.

“It is,” he says, slowing the truck down. “I stopped by before I picked you up to make sure everything was set up correctly. All of these people are here for your dad, Bee. Friends that he grew up with—even an old basketball coach. The guy is like ninety,” he says, in an attempt to be cheerful.

I know he means well, but I can’t take it. The tears fall quickly, as I begin weeping like a baby. The pressure building in my heart feels unbearable.