Southern Legitimacy Statement: I grew up in southeastern Virginia, where the summers humid, the mosquitoes are relentless, and the history runs deep. I’ve spent evenings by the water, watched storms roll in off the bay, and driven down roads lined with pines and peanut fields. Manners matter, but so does knowing when to speak your mind, and around here, “y’all” is just part of the language. It’s a place where the past and present collide, and no matter where I go, it’ll always feel like home.
When the Light Fades
I held my stepdad as he died. The weight of his body, once so full of life, became something unsteady in my arms.
One moment, he was there, cracking jokes, giving me that look that said, “I’m always here for you, niña.” The next, I held on to something slipping away faster than I could understand.
Six hours earlier, we talked like everything was fine. Like tomorrow was a guarantee. His voice was rough but warm, the way it always was when he teased me. I don’t even remember what we talked about. Isn’t that stupid? The last conversation, the last real moment, and it’s already slipping through my fingers like sand.
When I was younger, I used to wonder if he loved me. He wasn’t my real dad, after all. But love doesn’t always come in words; sometimes, it’s in the way he made sure I was feeling okay, the way he grumbled about my music, but still let me control the aux, the way he called me his daughter without hesitation.
He never had to, but he did. The night he died, the hospital air smelled like bleach and something too clean, too cold. Machines beeped in rhythms I didn’t want to understand. I watched his chest rise and fall, counting every breath like if I kept track, I could stop the numbers from running out.
He wasn’t awake, wasn’t talking anymore. Just a body full of tubes and wires, a body that used to shake with laughter and now barely moved at all. They told us he wouldn’t wake up. That he was already gone, just a heartbeat left in the machinery. We had a choice, but it didn’t feel like one.
The man who taught me how to throw a punch, who smelled like concrete and sand dust, who called me “niña” like it was my name–but he was already gone. I should’ve said something more, something big, something meaningful.
But all I could do was hold on. His body was warm, but it wasn’t him anymore. I wanted to scream. To shake him, to beg, to demand he open his eyes just one more time. Instead, I cried into his hospital gown, whispering “I love you” over and over, like maybe the words could build a bridge between here and wherever he was going.
The moment they turned off the machines, the world didn’t stop. The beeping slowed, then disappeared. The fluorescent lights still buzzed. The nurses still moved. Cars still passed outside.
Everything was normal.
Except it wasn’t.
It looked like nothing happened. The ground stayed solid beneath my feet. But underneath, everything cracked. The moment the machines shut off, something inside me caved in, like a building collapsing in slow motion, silent at first–until the dust started rising. Until I couldn’t breathe. Until its weight settled on my chest.
Grief is heavy in ways nobody warns you about. It sits in your bones, and clings to your skin. It follows you into rooms and interrupts your sleep. It’s a sinkhole opening up beneath your life. People don’t see it.
On the surface, I went through the motions. I got up. I ate. But inside, everything collapsed. I was standing on rubble, trying to pretend the ground was still there. Some days, I still expect him to walk through the door, to groan his back, to steal the last slice of pizza just to mess with me.
I want to tell him stupid things, like how my phone charger is broken again, or how I saw a dog that looked exactly like ours.
I want to hear him say, “I’m here” just one more time. But all I have now are echoes and memories. And maybe, if I hold them tight enough, I won’t lose him again.
