Bert

I was six years old when I met Bert. I was eleven when my mom and him were married. I was thirty when he died. Four years have passed, yet still, when I think about him too hard, a deep-seated ache that I assumed would lessen over time returns. He was my dad. He was my nail painter, grilled cheese and soup when I was sick maker, and my take your daughter to work day date. I loved him. I still do.

Their wedding day was beautiful. It was a warm October day and the ceremony had been set up in our backyard. Our house, a big yellow farmhouse from the 1700s with maroon shutters and creeping vines. Behind, past the tree line, was a field of 500 acres. Not ours, but my sisters and I's playground, nonetheless. My older sister, my twin sister and I matched in the same homemade peach dress my mother's friend made for the occasion. The only difference being I had to wear my hair up in a bun because it was nicer that way while my sister's locks danced in the autumn breeze. But I was not bitter. The day was perfect, and we were happy.

There is very little that I can remember pre-Bert. The little scorpion tattoo on his upper arm faded from years in the sun; How my mother had a scorpion tattoo on her shoulder blade before they met, and it always felt like fate. How when I was young, possibly eight or nine, he taught me a joke to tell at parties. How do you make a hormone? The answer, Don't pay her. I did not understand the joke until years later and could not understand why my mom was mad. Now it just makes me smile. These are the things I remember.

When I graduated fifth grade, I went on a week-long beach holiday with my best friend. I was no longer a kid; middle school, here I come. Three days into the trip, I received a call from my mom and Bert telling me I'd have a present waiting for me when I got back. I begged them to tell me; Bert laughed and said, you will see. I would like to say I couldn't stop thinking about it, that I was dying to get home, but in truth, I hung up the phone, was distracted by something and forgot all about it. I was a typical ten-year-old. It was not until I reached my bedroom, suitcase in hand, that I saw the cardboard box encompassing most of my bed, small noises escaping it. When I opened it up, three tiny chicks chirped happily inside. I was shocked. Yes, my mom had a co-worker with pet chickens and yes, I begged for some regularly, but never in my wildest dreams would I have believed I'd someday have my own. But that was Bert; he made the impossible possible. And so I did what any ten-year-old would do; I promptly named them Ducky, Little foot, and Sara from the Land Before Time movie. I had pet chickens until I moved away to college. Today a rooster tattoo dawns my wrist. For Bert, always.

Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico in 2017. My parents had moved to Lajas to live with my step-grandparents when they had health issues a few years previously. After they passed, my parents stayed. It was our family's home. It was to be a generational home. Bert fell during the storm and was gone soon after. That phone call will haunt me for the rest of my life.

He was 63 years young. My eldest daughter remembers him; my middle daughter only a little, and my youngest will have pictures and stories only. He was kind, generous and patient. He always wanted me to write. He always said I have the ideas Rach, and you have the skill. One day we will write a book together. Why did I not find the time? I should have found the time.

Bertram George Work III was the very best dad.