August 17, 2025

it's been one year now since your heart went still.

one year since you called me sweetheart and held me in your withering arms.

centuries without you have collapsed into a single breath.

i'm still here, saving stories for conversations we'll never have.

if heaven has mailboxes, i'd write you letters to catch you up on everything you missed:

the garden you inspired blooms with fruits you won't get to try.

i'm djing more now, but i drink until i can't remember your proud smile from the front row.

i'm learning html to display my art for strangers, but their attention is an empty replacement for yours.

i'm visiting mom more as the cancer steals what's left of her. she needs us dad, so i borrow your compassion when i hold her hand.

i went to taiwan to see grandma. cancer found her too.

i went to tokyo with friends to try to fill the silence with joy.

then taiwan again to remember i still have family in the world.

i'm making friends and there are people who love me here, but no one in the world could ever hold me like you did.

i wish i could call you up.

instead i train AI chatbots to love me like you did, but they only echo the love i already lost.

or i just whisper these words to the wind and pretend the breeze that follows is you brushing my cheek.

June 30, 2025

when i was a little girl, i got lost in macy's.

i told my mom i was going to find my dad who had just walked off in search of towels.

i couldn't find him.

then i turned around, and she was gone too.

i panicked.

all alone in the world for the first time, searching for an anchor in a sea of strange faces.

i crumbled to the ground between racks of clothing and quietly sobbed, feeling helpless and terrified.

this is how it feels to be 28 and grieving both parents.

vulnerable and lost,

an only child desperately searching for the comfort of what used to be home, realizing all at once that i am truly alone under blinding fluorescent lights.

do they realize i'm gone?

is mommy looking for me?

i look like a woman now, keeping her pain contained,

but inside i am still that little girl, seeking comfort in a world that is completely unfamiliar and threatening without the safety of my mother's hand in mine.

i know they never wanted to abandon me, and when nights are cold, i can feel their love wrapped around me,

but i am still left shaking on the department store floor,

trying hopelessly to hold it together so the world doesn't see how i'm falling apart.

if i could reach back into the aisles of the past,

i would grab my own hand, and hold myself as tightly as the memories of my parents hold me now.

June 5, 2025

she looks sort of human, but she has none of the characteristics of my mother.

her eyes, once filled with passion, are empty and indifferent.

her once-flawless form is indented and scarred from where they cut the cancer out.

her goofy laughter is replaced by violent cries and deafening screams.

still, i'd rather love what's left than love what's gone.

June 1, 2025

since daddy died, the world keeps caving in.

every day brings more bad news.

panic in my chest warns of a tragic future.

my mother is dying.

i mask addiction as art,

i fly across the world,

i buy a stupid plushie.

i experience the world my parents gave me in ways they never will again.

i frantically seek the spark of joy cloaked in neverending darkness.

my mother's mother may not get to see her daughter on earth again.

how do i tell her i don't want to?

the last i saw my mother she had her fist wrapped around my throat.

she could barely walk, but she could stomp my soul into the ground without even trying.

i'm afraid to go back, but mommy needs me.

my mommy is dying.

i'm still recovering from the bullet holes her words left in me, but i need to go back.

i will anaesthetize myself in private, so she can take her pain out on me again.

i will give her permission to take me for granted because it may be the last thing i can give her.

i will find pleasure in losing my life to give beauty to what's left of hers.

May 5, 2025

dear daddy,

it's been 8 months since we said goodbye, and every breath i take still echoes with the memory of your love.

the love i felt from you was so powerful and true that having to exist in the world without it leaves me hollow. one day, my memories of you will be a comfort, but now i still move through life envious of my younger self for every moment we were together.

as i try to rebuild my life in your absence, the world seems to carry on, in denial of death. i remember witnessing your heartbreak over your father's death, never anticipating i was ten short years out from losing you too. a tear rolled down your cheek at the dinner table.

"i'm an orphan," you said. i didn't know how to be there for you.

in 2022, when i found out you and mom were diagnosed with cancer, my physical reaction was immediate, manifesting as a year-long, undiagnosed chronic pain condition, followed by a year of nauseating physical anxiety symptoms. i didn't want to be an orphan.

through my every attempt at recovery, you were the only person i wanted to call. you'd think the medical profession would attract more physicians who care genuinely and completely about the wellness of their patients, but in my life, i've only met one (no offense to the doctors in the room). through every moment of your illness, you never for a second stopped caring wholeheartedly for everyone around you. you were on your actual deathbed, trying to come up with a solution to my panic attacks.

i've never met another soul who dispensed kindness and love so freely. if you're here today, you already know this is true about my dad, but no one else knows what it was like to have him as a dad.

when i lived at the farm in hawaii, my husband and i adopted two kittens named pickle and mango. we named them that because there was a pickled mango vendor across the street from the pickup truck handing out free kittens.

pickle was my baby. every night, she lovingly nursed on a mole on my neck until she fell asleep. i half-jokingly credit her with infecting me with toxoplasmosis because i was not a cat person before i had her. one day, she was attacked by a stray hunting dog, and she began to show signs that she was dying. i was sick to my stomach with worry, but i was comforted by the fact that you happened to be flying in from california that night.

your calming presence brought a sense of safety to my frantic state, and you tenderly fed her drops of water and held her in your arms until she fell asleep one final time. you had a way of making me feel like everything was going to be okay and that it was safe to trust the world despite the horror of its circumstances. in the morning, you prepared a grave, picked a bouquet of wildflowers, and held me while i grieved.

i remember you used to offer to do my chores for me if i played ukulele and sang for you while you did them. my mom left the room to escape the noise, but you stayed in the kitchen listening to me, long after the dishes were done. something i will never forget about our last few days together was when you asked me if i could sing for you.

my voice was so shaky and my throat so full of tears, i could barely get the words out. despite your constant quiet pain, you giggled adorably to the hopeful lyrics of love is a wild thing by kacey musgraves. i love introducing people to new music, so my heart leapt when you asked to hear that song again. i choked on every other note, but you laid there smiling so serenely, with such a look of genuine enjoyment. i felt so grateful and privileged to have a dad who makes me feel so loved and treasured.

i think that's why i got so sick when i realized i was going to lose you. because to keep walking without you by my side made my legs so weak, they began to lose their function. these past few months without you have seen me through many highs and lows, but as my body recovers from the trauma of grief, i am rediscovering the joy of physical movement.

every day, i get on my bike and push my body to its physical limit to celebrate the fact that i can do that again. you've always preached the therapeutic effects of exercise, and since we've enjoyed many hikes, bikes, and runs together, i envision you smiling at me and pumping energy into my legs, propelling me forward. even on days of emotional anguish, i bike through the pain with tears streaming down my face, and those are the days i imagine you are the most proud of me. i do this to remind myself that i really am just as strong as you always knew i was.

it's been 8 months since you last said "i love you sweetheart," but i still hear it in my heart every day. i imagine your soul is probably somewhere so infinite now it makes your life on earth feel miniscule, but to those you left behind it was anything but. even though our shared time on earth was brief, i feel so blessed to experience my life as your daughter.

i love you endlessly, and i will carry your memory with me wherever i go.

January 28, 2025

i choke on your name in my sleep.

my pillow is soaked with salt water.

each morning is another bad dream.