Death is always a surprise. No one really expects it. Even those who are seriously ill rarely believe that they only have a few days left. They think it might be next week. But they don't expect that the "next week" they are talking about is tomorrow.
We are never ready. There is always something missing. There are always things we want to do, but there is no time. The end comes and comes unexpectedly. For spouses, it is a tearful moment. For children, it is just a long, sleepy ceremony that they do not fully understand (thankfully).
The same thing happened to my father. His passing was even more unexpected. He passed away at the age of 27—the same age that some famous musicians have passed away. He was so young. Too young. He wasn't an actor. He wasn't a singer either. But the pain, it didn't choose. It just came.
He left me when I was young. And that's when I first learned what a funeral and a burial meant. I was only eight and a half years old at the time—just the right age to feel the intense loss of a lifetime. If he had been gone sooner, I might not have had any memories of him. Maybe there wouldn't have been any pain. But growing up without a father is probably more painful.
But me, I had a father.
A dad who is serious but knows how to make you laugh. The kind who has a joke before scolding you—so it doesn't feel too heavy. A dad who kisses my forehead every night before I go to bed. A dad who you know is there even when you don't call him.