Mourning Doves on a Sunday

 How do you cope through grief?

Do you use humor to the point your relatives begin to wonder about your sanity?

Do you clean the house like a maniac?

Do you distract yourself with baking, knitting, or reading? 

Or do you journal, as if writing a letter to your godfather will let him know you wanted him to see you graduate?

I do all of the above. 

I was so happy when the universe granted me one more Thanksgiving and Christmas to spend with my godfather; because I spent nights begging while praying, "Just one more."

Once 2024 arrived, I knew I looked like a fool asking for another.

Just one more.

But the universe knew I would be asking every year, had it granted me my wish again. 

But I couldn't bring myself to be more selfish as I grew more aware of how much he was suffering while he continued to get ill. So I came to terms with the fact that the man who raised me was going to die.

The man who's responsible for my dinosaur obsession, my passion for fantasy and useless knowledge about the history of the Earth. He would've loved to see the Jurassic Park lego set I built with my boyfriend.

During my 21 years of life, I have grown to cherish sunny Sundays that made me feel so nostalgic. When I was a kid, whenever he had errands to do or family to visit during Sundays, I tagged along. After he would offer me a mint from his ridiculously abundant candy stash (the middle armrest's only purpose), we would hit the road. Then, as he tapped the armrest along any Salsa song that was playing, I would stare at the sky and repeat words in my head until they no longer felt like words. I don't know what was wrong with me, but I knew I was happy. 

And somehow, for some reason, the skies were always so blue and crisp. As if God himself took his time painting it for me. As if He subconsciously prepared me for my godfather's absence once I learned to associate the blue skies with the smell of his car's leather seats, and being awakened by mourning doves during a Sunday nap.

I've been so busy with college and traveling to the hospital that I haven't noticed it's been weeks since I heard a mourning dove. Until Friday, which was the day he passed away. But I promised myself to take it as a good omen, of love and comfort. That everything is going to be okay as long as I don't forget to look up and not take for granted the skies he–from now on–will clear for me.