Old Fashioned Grief and Coffee

It was a mundane Thursday when we met up for coffee and donuts. Little did I know, coffee and donuts would soon become our thing — a thing that became a “thing” in 2018 as I paced inside the Manila Airport waiting to board my flight.

“Call me when you arrive, and I’ll take you out for coffee and donuts,” he said. “I know there’s more you want to say.”

I wasn’t sure if it was because of the many years he spent as a radio host that his voice naturally grounded me, the undertones of deep assertiveness that held steady. Either way, I allowed myself to be consoled, listening to the very reason why I was on a plane home to bury my dad.

I met him for coffee and donuts at 8 a.m. on that mundane Thursday. I watched him dip pieces of his old- fashioned donut into his coffee as the crumbs subtly float to the surface of his cup, swimming in small pools of undissolved creamer.

“You want some?” he asked jokingly.

I politely declined. “I’m not hungry.”

There was a forty-year gap between us. Although there was a long deep silence that hung between subtle “how are yous” and “how was your flight,” I felt the distance begin to close in because of the single thing we now had in common — grief.

For twenty-eight years of my life, there hadn’t been much conversation exchanged between my uncle and me. He would call the house every day to speak with my father, the two retired men discussing everything from alien conspiracy theories to the newest tech gadgets until the wee hours of the morning.

He ate the last piece of his old-fashioned and wiped his fingers on the edge of a napkin while my coffee turned to lukewarm bean water. Instead of diving straight into the details of how my father had passed — a heart attack on what was also a typical Tuesday night in our household — he started with a story.

“Did you know that when your dad was in the military, he would visit me in San Diego on the weekends? Your little cousin would crawl on the couch while he was sleeping and sit there waiting for Uncle Dan to wake up so they could play cards.”

I giggled at the image of my sweet father playing cards and dutifully serving his role as uncle buying goodies and candies to my cousin’s desire. For the next several hours, my uncle shared the many lives my father had lived — the humble brother, spiritual mentor, awkward teenager, angry son, dedicated airman, and proud father.

For my entire life, I had known my father for the single role he had played in my life — Dad. Dad was the needle on my life’s compass when I felt like my life had gone astray, and at that moment, my life was far beyond that.

It wasn’t long until the silence loomed over us again and with that the heaviness of unprocessed grief.

“You’re angry. I get it. When your aunt died, I was angry,” he said. “Your dad called me every day and let me talk his ear off with stories of her. We keep their memories alive by sharing their stories. We live for them, and whatever you do, you continue to do that for yourself and your dad.”

There was a combustion of emotions that surfaced to my throat — anger, resentment, sadness, longing, which can all be placed in a single category that is grief. I opened my mouth to share a story but closed them because instead of my mouth, my eyes began to speak.

My uncle reached for my arm, nodded his head, and continued along with the collection of his fondest memories of my father.

On that mundane Thursday, death had graciously invited itself to our table, and with its presence, it gifted us with a new relationship. I soon found myself calling my uncle to talk about alien conspiracy theories and tech gadgets, and in return, he would share stories about my aunt and their youthful days as lovestruck teens.

In due time, I finally saw the gift my father had left behind. He was a man who left this world, so we’re reminded of our mortality and of the beautiful relationships that can rise from the ashes.